THE BOND IDENTITY
by Art Anthony
Summary: Living up to the family legacy is a tall order under the most normal of circumstances. How much more so when your father was considered the greatest spy the world has ever seen? Welcome to Holly's world.
1. File 1: The Invite

**THE BOND IDENTITY**

**FILE HB007/001**

The name is Bond. Holly Bond.

And I am a spy.

Which generally means, I get to spend a lot of time undercover, which in itself, largely entails having to bring down your average sociopathic megalomaniac aka 'bad guy'.

Now, the great contradiction with this _particular_ type of criminal, is that they all want to rule the world but are forever hellbent on _destroying_ it. Like, seriously guys, could you make up your minds?

One such _walking oxymoron_, is Dorian Grey. Yep, just like the famous oil painting, but _after_ the man himself looked at it! All old, grey and sagging, held together with various bits of social tape, although _that's_ never stopped him from being constantly surrounded by a bevy of beauties like some underworld version of Hugh Hefner.

But big Hugh's not my assignment. Not today, anyway.

Emerging from the sea, I make my way across the sandy shores of Puerto Rico and proceed to peel my wetsuit off like an over ripe banana skin, before stretching out the thinly veiled black lycra top underneath to produce a nifty black all-in-one number. Slicking my wet hair back, I take a pair of titanium stilettos and matching airings out of my small water-resistant satchel, before turning the satchel inside out, transforming it into the perfect minimalist handbag, completing my new ready to wear look.

I ditch the wetsuit in a nearby bush and proceed onwards towards the target location. Perfection.

**|_"HOW'S THE OUTFIT, HOLLY?"_|** screams the high-pitch feedback-riddled voice into my ear drum, courtesy of a state-of-the-art two-way voice receiver built into the airings.

"Dammit, Q! You could've at least _tested_ the damn **noise levels** _before_ bleeding my eardrums dry?"

|"_My bad!"_| comes the usual less than genuine reply. |"_Testing, testing, 1,2,3!_"|

"The only thing your testing right now, nerd, is my patience!" I tell him. "The dress fits just fine. The **shoes**, on the other hand, are a little on the _tight_side."

_|"New shoes always take a little while to wear in."| _he informs me. |"_But you will not believe the amount of cool stuff I've crammed into them!"|_

"Yeah, and I'm sure you had a **ball**, test-driving them back at the lab, too!" I quip, always one to seize an opening.

_|"Ahh...!"|_ he replies. |_"I... well... a lot could have gone **wrong**... you know? So... err...! Okay look, I was just... that is..."|_

Well, gee, that backfired in the most awkward of ways.

"Save it, nerd. My only concern is that it all works! But I guess I know what the 'Q' stands for now, huh?"

_|"Yes, 'Quite'. As in 'please be'."|_ he tells me. _|"I need to run your mission specs and we're already behind time."|_

"Okay, shoot." I tell him.

_|"Dorian Estavez Grey. Corporate mogul and owner of Greystoke Energy Enterprises: 'Power to the People... blah, blah, blah'. Says here, he's a regular contributor to over a dozen charities. A three-time winner of the 'Humanitarian of The Year' award, annual local beauty pageant sponsor... etc, etc. But flip the coin and we're talking links to the Columbian Cartel, money laundering, sex trafficking... basically 'Jekyll and Hyde on crack'!|_

"Aren't they all?" I reply. "What's the security like?"

_|"Minimal, surprisingly. In **this** house anyway. These days he likes to keep low profile, with everything from the CIA to the local authorities shadowing his every move, choosing to operate each criminal business venture under a different alias via a different location. So in **short**, the securities nothing you wont be able to handle."|_

"That was the **_short_** version?" I ask in bewilderment.

_|"Pay attention, Holly. Now, your cover will be; Miss **Indie** Pendant... see what I did there?"|_

"I'm in _awe_ of your greatness...!"

_|"Ah, whatever! Anyway, you're attending a private function, posing as an exotic wannabe model. Bit of a stretch, I know, but I think you can pull it off. Adding you to the guest list... now, so should be live on their PDA systems. Remember, once you're in, you will need to make your way to the 4th room, on the 4th floor, which is room number 4-4..."|_

"4?"

_|"3! Close."|_

"Then I crack the safe, bag the goods, and make like a leaf! Got it."

_|"'Tree', Holly. It's 'make like a tree... and leaf'!"|_

"You still there, Q? I'm sorry, I thought I requested radio _silence_!"

_|"What? Now hang on there, you can't just-"|_

Oh, but I _can_, nerd. And I just _did_. Best thing about the two-way radio is I have complete control of the on/off switch.

Ah Q, annoying as heck, but _still_ the smartest guy in the room. Even when he's not actually _in_ the room. Makes the task of living up to his father's legacy a simple stroll in the park. I, on the other hand, am having no such frigging luck!

I get my head back in the game and clock Grey's supremely lit mansion over in the distance. The warm air and gentle breeze that accompanies it is as soothing as the sight of sun settling down for the night is hypnotic. Damn, I wish I could call in sick.

Eventually, I arrive at the mansion. Looking up at the magnificent architecture on display, I cant help but wonder, for the briefest of moments, wether I'm in the right paying job. This guy _obviously_ has more money than blood cells, and probably a fraction of the bureaucratic crap i have to deal with on a day to day basis, to boot. The car park alone is half the size of a football field, and plays host to some the best cars money _can't _buy. Haven't seen a selection like this since I last ran a circuit on Forza 5.

Creative credit's gotta go to whoever chose the two slabs of hired muscle guarding the main entrance up ahead. They bring a whole new meaning to the word 'intimidation'. Guessing ex-military, Colombian special forces? Either way, even _they_ should have no problem succumbing to the classic _'damsel in this dress_' approach.

Ha! See what I did there? I'm wasted.

Discretely, I attach a small transmitter to the undercarriage of the first vehicle I come across, a back-up plan, in case 'Plan A' goes south on me, then calmly make my way over to the main entrance.

Up close, the two cuban human roadblocks are no less intimidating. Just the kind of blokes I love to slam through a brick wall on an ordinary sunny day. But this mission's a simple snatch and run low profile affair, so the aim will be to maintain cover and **_not_** draw unwanted attention.

I arrive and make small talk with the marginarily smaller of the two in my best 'southern ditzy blonde' impersonation.

"Evening y'all, hope ah haven't missed the _entertainment?_"

"Honey, from where I'm standing, you _are_ the entertainment." he replies. I'm sure there's a compliment in there somewhere. "To who do I owe the pleasure, Miss...?"

"Pendant." I reply. "Indie Pendant."

Sounds worse coming out of my mouth, than it did going into my ears.

"That's a pretty little name for a pretty little girl, in an even _prettier_ little dress, but I'm afraid 'pretty' won't be getting you through these doors."

"Oh, ya'll mean like an invitation? Well why don't cha go 'head, check that list'a yours for that pretty lil name of mine?"

And so he does, whipping out from behind his back... a clipboard. Yep, a frigging clipboard! Like, who uses a clipboard in 2015? Well, this guy, Holly, it would seem.

"My my..." I say rather nervously, without trying to actually _sound_ nervous. "Would you look at that! Good ole fashion pen and paper for a guest list! Folks still _roll_ like that?"

"Had some weird electrical surge trigger off earlier. Killed everything on the premises with an electric pulse, including the PDA." he tells me."Yeah, E.M.P." grunts the bigger guy, as the smaller rifles through the guest list with his index finger as he continues.

"Temporarily shut down most of our internal systems, electronic devices, surveillance... say, you wouldn't happen to know anything about that, now, would you?"

What's he talking about. They're suspicious. Sounds like something else has happened here. Possibly _**someone**_else. Regardless, I'm losing precious time. Need to wrap this up.

"Honey, I don't even know what an 'EMP' is!" I laugh. "Sounds to me like a... tropical disease!"

He narrows his eyes at me for half a second before glancing over to his friend. "Nope. No 'Miss Pendant' anywhere on the list. Seems to me, the only place **_your_** name is written, is in my _heart_."

Any other day, I'd _happily_ pull out a knife and **_relish_** making that line of his a **brutal** reality. But this isnt that day. Meanwhile, the bigger guy, sensing some action might kick off, begins shifting the weight in his stance, unfolding his arms as he tilts his head to one side. Standard 'bouncer 101', I'm guessing. And 'kick off' it most certainly will!

**To be continued...**

**A/N... So, first chapter out the way, really hope you enjoyed it!**


	2. File 2: The Mansion

**FILE HB007/002**

The Grey Mansion. Puerto Rico.

The real mission's not even started and already a minor hiccup.

"Relax, sugah." I tell them, as I rummage through my handbag. "Invite's in here... somewhere."

Finally locating the trigger device, handily disguised as a cigarette lighter, I activate it and the mother of all distractions kicks off. The device I planted under the car earlier Q refers to as a 'Sub Wave Micro Transmitter', which is geek-speak for 'sets off car alarms using high frequency vibrations'.

The collective noise of the alarms is nothing short of deafening and within seconds the two heavies have high tailed it towards the parking lot to investigate, leaving me a clear path into the premises, as two more heavies brush past me en route to assist them.

And what a premises.

A vast open area funnels into the entrance to the main hall, Itself framed either side with two huge ascending staircases steeped in gold varnish, snaking upwards along the wall to meet at a neutral point four floors up. Strange abstract workings of high value art, immaculately positioned, adorn every wall space. All in all, a palace fit for a king. Or is that, King-_pin_? I'm on a roll, here.

I smile at a passing waiter before casually swiping a glass of champagne from his tray. He responds peculiarly with a wink and heads into the main hall where the party rages in full swing. Every guest appears to be somebody important, with live music courtesy of someone who looks suspiciously like **Linda Magdalena Lampenius **on solo violinist duties. Politicians, media reps, military personnel, all are present, not to mention the dozen or so 'bevy of beauties' dotted amongst them.

My entrance manages to turn a few selective heads, including one in particular, a brunette, european, who tries to give me 'harsh eyes', like I was a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit the puzzle. Which, of course, I am. But how would she know that?

I squint my eyes back at her so hard I nearly cry blood, before she eventually looks away, turning her attention back to the large impatient bloke standing beside her, who's no doubt trying desperately hard to convince her to accompany him to one of the many guest rooms.

Amazing what money can buy some people.

That's when I spot 'him', the grande host of the show, still as old as stale bread, with a complexion to match, in full entertainment mode among some of the guests.

I slip into standard 'flirt mode_' **every**_ guy's a sucker for and wait for the inevitable.

He spots me and stares. I look away. He turns away. I look at him. He catches me looking in the corner of his eye. He turns... you get the point.

Then I stroll over to another waiter in the corner of the room, grab my second glass of champagne and play the waiting game. With time for a quick check-in with Q, I discreetly tap my earpiece to open up communications.

"Nerd, I'm in!" I announce,

Silence.

"Nerd, do you read me?"

At first I'm thinking 'malfunction', but then I get it. "Oh grow up, will you?"

"Oh, so _**now**_ you want to talk?" comes the eventual reply.

"Well, '**want**' is a tad exaggerated... but I'm in. And I've already made visual contact with the secondary target."

"Alright then, so all's going smoothly." he comments.

"Sure, like sandpaper, syrup-dipped in broken glass!" I reply.

"Good! Wait, I'm sorry, was that _sarcasm?_ I couldn't quite-"

"I need an audio confirmation on the 'mark' before I can make my play."

"You'll need to get in close, for the audio-scan to get a clear pick-up. Then you'll need a set of clean prints to crack the safe, which'll _presumably_ be a class 5, so 'pretty good' won't cut it."

"Ok, I'm on it, already. Just give me the-"

"**You too, huh?**" comes a voice behind me, leaving me startled. I turn to see the rat has clearly taken to the bait.

"I'm sorry?" I ask, absentmindedly.

"I regularly have moments, where I can **_only_** be intellectually stimulated by having lenthy conversations with myself." he explains with a smarmy smile.

The guy's so full of himself, its a wonder he isn't suffering from obesity. I respond with a sheepish smile of my own.

"Your face. It doesn't seem... familiar." he notes rather sceptically. Time to think quick on my feet and pray Q will bring a rabbit out of the hat.

"Really? You mean... you _really_ don't recognise me?" I ask, laying the 'Brit' nice and thick. The conviction throws him off guard, as does the accent.

"No, I'd _definitely_ remember a face like that. It's difficult to fathom how one could _forget_ such an exquisitely beautiful visage. You're a long way from England, Miss...?"

"Pendant. Indie Pendant. And flattery will get you everywhere money _can't_!" I laugh, rather nervously.

"Well, its a good thing I have a healthy supply of both!" he smiles back. Where the heck is Q?

"So..." continues Grey. "Are you going to _tell_ me what your doing here? Or must I ask you one last time?" his eyes slightly narrowing, voice dropping an octave or two. This isn't good.

"Got it!" screams Q into my ear. "Pittsburg, Red Iron nightclub. He attends once a year for an overnight session of... okay, probably better you _**don't** know_."

"Red Iron, Pittsburg...?" I tell him, as I watch him shift uncomfortably, adjusting his necktie. "I know we had a great time and all, but I really thought I'd at least left you a lasting impression?"

"Right, right!" he tells me in hushed tones. "My apologies! So many girls, so many white lines... It's difficult to recollect the details... albeit those as **_exquisitely_** packaged as yourself. Probably just as well too, kind of stuff that goes on in _that_ crazy place...!"

There's half a moment of silence, before we both burst into harmoniously awkward laughter.

"Well_ I specifically _remember you _promising_ me I could drop by anytime, whenever I was in town, so here I am! Figured, if a girl needed a decent job around here, you'd be the best port of call. I'd be... _**extremely... **_grateful."

"I've... no doubt you _would, _my dear. Although, a phone call would've probably helped."

"Helped with what?" I ask, innocently.

"My _wife_ not being **jealous!" **he explains.** "**I can feel the witch's eyes burning into back of my scalp as we speak!"

I glance over his shoulder, and sure enough, she's watching. And to his descriptive credit, she _does_ in fact look like a witch. But _she's_ not my immediate concern. Nope, that'll be the two mad-as-hell doormen, briskly making their way through the guests to our very location.

"Mr Grey, sir!" the smaller one calls out.

"I'm busy." he replies, abruptly.

"I know sir, but this girl, she's-"

"**I'm busy!**"

"Forgive me, sir, it's just..."

"Why are you both not at your post?"

"...Trying to _**explain**_ that to you, sir. This woman..."

"Is my guest!" he tells them, with a look that would turn Medusa into stone. "And she has more right to be here, in _this_ very hall, than **either** of you. Do you know why? Because **she** was not **hired** to _man the front door!_ **You** both were! 'Were' being the **operative** word, because as of this instant, you are both _**relieved**_ of that duty. **Permanently! **Do I make myself clear?"

Ouch. Kind of _feel_ it for these guys. Nah, they **deserve** it.

As the two exchange hapless looks with one other and silently exit, the smaller one shoots me a glare no polarised filter could ever block.

"Forgive their... _rudeness_." pleads Grey.

"Nothing to forgive." I tell him. "they were only doing their job."

"Speaking of which." he tells me. "Allow me to introduce you to my-"

Suddenly, an unnerving scream rings out throughout the entire hall as we both turn to see a small group of guest gathered in a circle.

I sneak a peek, and catch a glimpse of a man on the floor, convulsing uncontrollably, foam trickling out of the corners of his mouth. I recognise him. The rotund guy who was hitting on the brunette earlier on. The same brunette who is now, conspicuously, nowhere to be seen.

Grey excuses himself abruptly, places his glass on a nearby table and makes his way over to give the matter his full attention. Time for another check-in with Q.

"You still there, Nerd?" I whisper.

"Barely! That whole scenario was... _intense! _I think I may have soiled myself."

"Just another day in the 'orifice' for you, right nerd?"

"Oh, _aren't_ we just full of zingers today, .H?"

"Nope. Just me. Do we have confirmation or not?"

"Yes. Voice-recog is a match, transmitting to your receiver now. Did you get the prints?"

I stroll over to the deserted glass, left by the man himself. "That's a positive. And we also have ourselves a bona fide distraction, but we'll need to move fast."

"Well, alrighty then!" says Q. "Time to go to work!"

To be continued...


	3. File 3: The Gatecrasher

**Chapter 3: File 3: The Gatecrasher**

* * *

**THE BOND IDENTITY**

**FILE HB007/003**

Grey's residence. 4th floor.

The commotion downstairs continues to provide a suitable cover, as I make my way down the hall towards the designated room, one of many trailing off far into the distance. Guessing this was probably once a hotel of some sort. Which begs the question, 'who buys an _entire hotel _to live in as their home? Didn't this guy ever catch 'The Shining'?

"443. I'm here." I announce to Q.

"Alright," he begins. "Now, the heels of your left shoe, should twist and slide out to make a handy state-of-the-art lock pick."

"Nice. And what does the other make, an electric toothbrush?"

"Not the time, Holly, not the time!"

Q, always an easy target.

4.8 seconds later and the lock's as good as picked. Good thing too, as I hear footsteps approaching from the main staircase. I make it in, just in time, resuming radio silence until the noise of footsteps trail off into the distance. Perfection.

Inside, the room appears to be a fairly ordinary albeit spacious office. Large mahogany desk stationed by a set of double venetian doors leading out towards a balcony at the back. A large luxurious leather sofa with a picture of some old guy hanging above it to the right. To the left, a large floor to ceiling book case stacked with literature about self empowerment, mind manipulation, exotic snakes and...

Wait! The painting above the sofa. It's not straight. This guy's way too hung up on detail to let an imperfection like that pass by. And it's as likely a place to hide a safe as any. But if It's recently been tampered with, the question remains, by whom?

I walk over to the sofa, and slowly reach up to take the painting down. Then I notice it. A reflection in the glass. Something moving. Behind me!

I duck, just in the nick of time, as an object imbeds itself into the painting's surface at extremely high velocity, and take cover behind the sofa. Was it a knife? I glance up at the painting and see... a pen. Wait, a pen? Guess it really **_is_** mightier than the sword.

"Look, whoever you are, I have no issue with you." I call out. "This doesn't have to get personal."

There's silence, which I choose to read as a mute agreement, slowly tilting my head out from behind the sofa. Suddenly two **_more_** pens, bury themselves into the sofa's arm, mere inches away from my face. Wrong call, on my part.

"Right then!" I shout out, ducking behind the sofa once more. "Let's chalk that one up to a 'miscommunication' and move on, shall we? Now, I'm making a presumption that English is not your first language, if, that is, you speak at all. So l'll put this to you as plainly and simply as possible; stand down, or I **will** _take _you down!"

More silence ensues. Damn.

My eyes scout around the room for anything that will give me an edge, and catch a reflection of the attacker from a reflection on a nearby table ornament. Surprise surprise, it's the 'missing' hot brunette from downstairs. Now the pieces all fit. Time to switch tactics.

"I take it the human paperweight, currently chocking on his own vomit downstairs, was your idea? You wouldn't have anything to do with a certain 'power surge' earlier on too, would you? If **_I'm_** on to you, how long before Grey is too? Only a matter of time, honey. Maybe we can work something out?"

I need just the briefest of distractions to have a clear shot. I retrieve the lock-pick out of the shoe once more. Then I go for the second shoe, releasing a USB key out of a hidden slot in the heal. Handy for downloading data. Not so much for killing people with.

Patiently I wait for my window of opportunity. Then I hear it. We both do. Voices, coming from down the hallway.

"We're on the fourth floor now, sir." bellows a voice into a radio. "Commencing a search of every room, now!"

My cue! I launch myself off of the sofa towards her, heal first, and drive the lock-pick into her left shoulder. She doesn't scream. She doesn't even flinch. What she **_does_** do, however, is drive her right knee clear into my chin with considerable force. It hurts. Like a bitch.

I wince and respond with a kick of my own, slamming it directly into her stomach, launching her clean off the ground and over the desk behind her. We both hit the floor together, catching a moments breath.

The table. An overturned pen holder rolls along it, stopping dead in front of her eyes. Damn it, more pens.

She grabs a handful and begins hurling them at me, one by one, like throwing stars. One grazes my shoulder as I dive towards the sofa, grabbing a cushion for defence. It does a poor impression of a shield, but then again, it is only a cushion.

I decide to hurl it at her, as a distraction, while I get in close, making surgical swipes and stabs with my dagger-like weapon. But she artfully manages to bob and weave around each attack, before knocking the heal out of my hands and sailing through the open window with a precision spinning roundhouse kick. I'd applaud her style, if my hand didn't hurt so damn much. She's that good.

I respond with my own kick to the side of her head, with as much force as I can muster. She doesn't go down. Why the heck doesn't she go down?

I make a dive at her, taking the fight to the floor for a little 'ground and pound'. We tussle,and roll, trading punches to the ribs. She manages to get on top, locking me down to deliver three unanswered blows. But I'm letting her. Positioning my body at just the right angle, before bringing my right leg over her head and forcing it to the ground. Hard. Then I wrap my arm around her exposed arm and pull with all my might, until it pops. A swift side kick to the jaw, and I roll backwards to safety.

She's lying there, still.

I get up, barely, exhausted, bruised and trying real hard not to acknowledge it. Pride can be a awful thing.

I hobble over to what's left of the desk and rummage through some scattered papers. Something caught my eye before, during the scuffle. Blueprints, bank transactions, telephone numbers... there. A single sheet of paper. On it, a grid of letters. Thousands of letters. What does it all mean? Q. I need him. I re-open communications.

"...Q?"

"Holly! Where the bloody heck have you been, sunning yourself on the sandy shores of...?"

"Not now, damn it! There was... somebody already here... a professional... she's good. Probably, the best Ive ever fought... was barely able to..." And that's when I notice it.

Now, I'm not one for chills, and things that go 'bump' in the night barely register to me when my head hits that pillow. But even I have to admit to feeling a slight unease as I look down to where the body of my attacker was, unconscious, only moments ago, to find nothing is now there.

The window. She's taken it, for sure. But how? And without me even noticing? And with all the pain she must be in?

"She's gone." I tell Q.

"Gone? Who's gone? Gone where? What the bloody...?"

"No time, Q. Now, by the looks of it, she's already been at the safe and emptied its contents over a table, so what am I looking for?"

"Ahh... right... okay... are you hurt?"

"Q!"

"Sure, sure. Okay... It's a list... of sorts... they call it; 'The Bucket List'."

"Please, do not tell me M sent me all the way here just to..."

"No, no, it's not an **_actual_** bucket list, though to be honest, intel on its specific contents remain something of an enigma. What is confirmed is it holds some kind of threat to national and international security. What do you see?"

"A list of very large bank transfers... some observation notes taking from some kind of behavioural experiments... does 'Treadstone' mean anything? ...wait, there's a sheet of paper... rows and rows of letters on it... coded, perhaps?" I suggest, cluelessly.

"Or it _**could**_ just be your average crossword puzzle! The cigaret lighter's equipped with a retina-prism focus camera lens. Snap everything before cramming it all back in the safe. Remember, you were never here."

"This isn't my first time, Q. I know what to frigging do! There's a compact laptop here too. I'm guessing encrypted."

"Theres an algorithm converter built into a USB Key located above the heel in your... Hey, who am I kidding? You've done this all before too, right?"

"Okay, seriously... I am **_really_** not having a good day!"

"Oh, it's about to get a _whole_ lot **worse, **sweetheart!" comes a familiar voice behind me. I spin around to see four of Grey's heavies standing there, including the two from the front door earlier. The smaller of which is addressing me now.

"Looks like you and me get to party after all." he says with a twisted smile.

Still enough juice left in me to take them all down. If they weren't all heavily armed, that is. But they are. So I won't.

Guess 'Tweedledum' gets to keep his job after all.

To be continued...


	4. File 4: The Pet

**THE BOND IDENTITY**

**FILE HB007/004**

Grey's residence. Room 443.

Yep, still here. And still neck deep in it. 'It' being, an impossibly bad situation gone considerably worse. A situation I'm stumped to see an kind of exit out of. I'm tired, beaten and tired of **_being_** beaten, strapped to a chair and circled like shark-bait by four of Grey's overgrown stooges. All the while anticipating the inevitable arrival of the man himself.

The only ace in my favour being the genius kid on the outside listening in, who is _hopefully_ working double-time to come up with a plan of escape.

"It's no use, Holly, without an extraction approval, you're chances of coming out of this one, are slimmer than an anorexic needle on a low-fat diet." he tells me. What can I say, he's a born pessimist.

"But then" he continues. "I say that **_every_** mission, and we always manage to find a way out in time, right H!"

"Shut up, will you? You might jinx it." I tell him.

"**_You_** shut up! Crazy woman, stop talking to self! You wait for boss man in silence." grunts the big guy, almost cryptically. I guess somebody skipped an English class or two during school. No wonder he never spoke earlier.

"What my _considerably_ large friend is trying to tell you, is that it's better you save your voice for when Mr Grey arrives." explains my friend from the front door. "Trust me, when I say '_you will need it!_"

"Why, what's he going to do, audition me for X-Factor?"

"Ha! That's funny. You see, I, on the other hand, am **_more_** than happy to just... well... **torture** the answers out of you." he smiles, "But maybe you want to save me the effort, no? And tell me who you are, who you work for, and what you are doing here?"

"Told you already... needed the bathroom and took a wrong turn! I **still** need to go, by the way. So if i were you I'd grab the nearest bucket and mop cause it's gonna get rather messy up in here."

"'Bathroom' huh? And how do you explain... all of this?" he motions towards the destruction of Greys once immaculately furnished office.

"Feng Shui!" I answer. "Or at least, my **_poor attempt_** at Feng Shui. A little heavy-handed, I agree, but my heart was in the right place. You can practically **_feel_** the energy shifting freely from wall to wall...!"

The big guy glances around, and nods his head approvingly, before 'Tweedle' slaps the back of his head and orders him to stand by the door.

I'd have a good old giggle, but my ribs are still aching from the pounding they took earlier.

Enter Grey, and immediately the room temperature appears to drop a few degrees.

"Game time, Nerd." I whisper. "Grey's in the room. Think fast."

"Trying, Holly. Hang in there." he tells me. Like I have a choice.

Meanwhile, Grey silently removes his jacket and gently rests it on the nearby sofa, before calmly unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt, rolling the sleeves all the way up to his upper arms. It's all for effect, naturally. To raise anticipation, enhance fear and dread. But all it's doing is buying me more time. Which I cannot have enough of.

Finally, he strolls towards me and leans in, looking me dead in the eye.

"My apologies for being late, my dear." he tells me, with unnerving sincerity.

"That's... alright." I reply. "Glad you could make it."

He glances around the room. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Ah, that would be a 'toilet'." I respond. "And no, still looking and still very much in need."

"Need!" he says. "Ah... '_There is enough in this world for everyone's needs, yet not enough for certain peoples greed!'_"

"Mahatma Gandhi."

"Who gives a crap. Point is, we all have a need. Its primary, instinctive. Question is, what is yours? Why have you come here? And the answer to **_that_** question lies in a telephone conversation I had with an associate of mine in Moscow, not too long ago, would you care to geuss what he told me?"

"The test results came back positive'?"

One of his men breaks out into a fit of giggles. Can't say I blame him, it was a killer line. But Grey doesn't see the funny side, and, walking towards him, begins violently slapping him across the face repeatedly, before opening the door and literally kicking his ass out of the room. He slams the door, straightens his hair, and turns calmly back towards me, smiling.

"Keep up with these jokes of yours, I'm gonna have no men left." he shrugs.

"Look, Mr Grey, I have no idea what this is all about. Really. I came here to ask you for a jo-"

"Mikhail Doliński. You enquired of him, no?"

Okay, who? Just when things couldn't get any weirder. Need to buy Q more time to run a check on that name.

"Way ahead of you, H!" he whispers.

"Can't say I do." I say. "Well, I could say it, of course, but I'd be lying. And going by the whole sinisterly serious tone we've all now adopted, I'd be remiss in saying _anything_ that was even _**remotely**_ less than the tru-"

Suddenly he grabs my jaw in a vice-like grip that belies his age.

**"**You think you can mock me?** Here, in my own house?" **he barks.

The veins in his neck and forehead pulsate like they're about to explode. His cigar-stained breath, seeps into the skin on my face as a nervous twitch dominates his right eye.

A clear shot at a head-butt presents itself. It would take him down or, at the very least, blind him momentarily, but they'd still be three more of these clowns to contend with. And I'd still be strapped to this bloody chair.

Eventually he releases his hold and stands back, wringing his hands in an effort to calm himself.

"Forgive me, my dear. I can be quite... highly strung at times."

"Yeah, me too..." I gasp. "Especially when my sugar level's in the red."

Cue Q, with a timely update. "Dollinski, Mikhail; born 1948, in the city of Samara. Russia. Political activist with suspected ties to the Russian Mob. A big player on both sides of the field. If he's involved in something, you can be sure that 'thing', whatever it is, isn't good!"

"Look, I have no idea who this 'Mikhail' person is, I swear! Only time I was ever **_in_** Moscow was at the club you and I met at a year ago! As I told your pet monkeys earlier, this is all just a huge misunderstanding."

He pauses for a second. "'Pet... monkeys? It's funny you should say that."

He leans towards one of his men and whispers something into his ear in Spanish. I only manage to catch the last three words 'Go get it.', but it's more than enough to reinforce the very bad feeling I already have.

"Dollinski is an important part of our plan." he explains. "Any attempted 'affiliation' with him, immediately jeopardises that plan at a great expense."

"We? Who's we?" I ask. But he goes silent on me, momentarily glancing at his watch.

"It's your very last opportunity to speak, my dear." he urges. "I advise using the time wisely. Remember, I know all about you... special agent... Alexia... Bourne."

"Who?" whispers Q in my ear, echoing my own confused thoughts. "Stall him while I run a background check on that name."

Stall him. Right. No problem.

"Don't look so surprised." continues Grey, rather smugly, as he slowly circles me.

"Born Alyssa Marie Webb, the daughter of US marine, David Webb, who was, at the time, stationed in a small village somewhere in Cambodia.

At age three, due to an unfortunate bombing during the Vietnam war, you were presumed dead along with your mother and brother only to inexplicably resurface, many years later in Kansas, Nebraska, suffering heavily from short-term memory loss but possessing a wide range of extraordinarily advanced combat skills.

Eventually arrested and charged with GBH, having beating over a dozen gang members to a pulp armed with only a screw driver and a handful of bolts. You were subsequently inducted into a top secret black ops programme code named: Operation Blackbriar. An off book Wetworks division created for high-target unsanctioned assassinations."

"Ah, Holly, not sure where homeboy got his intel, but I'm coming up with nothing but air." offers Q apologetically.

It's the brunette. It's got to be her.

"So, now you know that I know who you are, we can dispense with the games, yes? It was you who killed my guest downstairs, was it not?"

"How, when I was talking to you at the time...?" I say.

"You had something to do with it!" he insists.

"Are you even **listening** to me?"

"Tell me, who hired you to assassinate me?"

"No-one, because you **_got the wrong girl! _**The girl you want is a brunette..."

"A brunette, huh? ."

He pauses for a moment, before reaching into his back pocket and producing a mobile phone, 18 carrot limited edition with all the bells and whistles, typical of a guy like him. But he only needs one standard feature, the photo gallery, with which to cement his accusations. And as he flips the phone around for me to gaze upon the screen, I begin... doubting my own sanity... in this entire matter.

"I dunno, looks like a blonde to me!" he comments, revealing a retina-tingling HD image of... me. A picture I have no recollection of ever taking.

"Okay, that girl... **_is_** me." I confess. "But Im not the one your looking for."

"And yet, the one Im looking for... is this girl." he says.

"Holly, this doesn't make any sense!" whispers Q, anxiously.

"You see Miss Bourne, your 'informant' in Russia, Anton Deveskii, is in fact an old acquaintance of mine. And it was he who warned me about the beautiful yet deadly blonde who single-handedly stormed into his office, taking down a dozen of his men in a heartbeat, in an effort to extract formation about... me. And my organisation. Well, here I am."

"Yes, here you are! In the flesh! Larger than flipping life! And _STILL_ **TALKING TO THE WRONG BLOODY PERSO-**"

Pain.

The only way to describe what I'm feeling from the right cross he delivers, 1st class. Even worse, the blow knocks my earring, along with it's transmitter, clean off and onto the floor. Now I really **_am_** on my own. Now all really is lost.

"You see? There I go again! Now look what you made me do." he tells me, dabbing the corners of my mouth with a handkerchief like a father who'd just served his baby daughter supper."

Enter his henchman, cautiously carrying a large red box. I note a beed of sweat streaming down the side of his face and feel a faint tightening in my stomach.

"Ah, here we are, right on cue. Tell me, Miss Bourne, you mentioned 'pets' earlier on. Are you a lover of pets?"

"Well, I... once had a Chihuahua named Lucky. But he got crushed under a parked car."

Cue a big belly laugh from the big guy once more, only this time he's joined by the rest of the gang. Even Grey manages a faint smirk. Something's wrong.

"A man of my considerable wealth acquires many pets throughout the years, as you can imagine. My favourite of which, is Vincent. Named after the great painter. I'm a lover of art, you see."

"Gotcha! Though I was always more of a **Jim Lee** fan myself." I say.

"Can't say I'm familiar...?" he tells me as he reaches over and lifts the lid. I continue yapping.

"Seriously? Wild Cats, Deathblow, not to mention killer runs on everything from Batman **_to_**-"

And that's when he takes out Vincent. A snake. A 5ft frigging snake!

"Vincent is a Thamnohis Siritalis." he kindly informs me.

"Really?" I say. "Funny, cause it... kinda looks like a snake to me."

"Eastern Garter Snake, to be precise." he says. "Did you know the male garter snake is known to, at times, produce both male and female pheromones? During mating season, this ability tricks other males into attempting to copulate with him. Fascinating."

"I'm sorry, did you say something? I kind of drifted off for a moment there. I think I may have inadvertently left the oven on."

Grey smiles. Well, grimaces, anyway. Then nods to his footmen to walk over and restrain me.

"Oh I get it. Trying to **_scare_** me, right? But if I remember, Garter snakes aren't even venomous, so nice try. But hey, if you really want to scare me, you could always have your hideous wife show her face again, right?"

He's not taking the bait. Ignoring me completely as his cronies retrain my already pretty restrained behind. Oh, this is bad, Holly. With not even a barrel in sight to scrape for options.

As for the snake, it's merely millimetres from my face, it's piercing eyes casting my own reflection upon its surface, as it stares deep into my very soul.

"Did you also know the Eastern Garter Snake gives birth to up to 50 live young at any given moment? Contemplate these wonderful facts as you choke on it, as it borrows itself deep into your stomach. And pray you don't survive that journey."

"Told you, Grey, I've got nothing to say! Damn it, you're wasting your time if you expect me to talk!"

"Talk?" he asks, with a furrowed brow, as the big guy wrenches my mouth wide open. "No Miss Bourne. I expect you to **die!**"

To be continued...


	5. File 5: The Unexpected

**THE BOND IDENTITY**

**FILE HB007/005**

The name is Bond, Holly Bond. And I am... alive? Although not quite sure how or why.

Scattered on the ground around me, are what **_used_** to be Dorian Grey along with three of his former employees.

Mr Grey!" screams a fourth, as he re-enters the room, pistol-ready, before he too hits the ground to join his colleagues in a lifeless heap, courtesy of a bullet lodged firmly between his eyes.

Sniper shot. Right. Didn't see it happen as I had my eyes squeezed shut at the time.

Impressive, taking into account the trees at the back of the house must be at least 60 yards away. Impressive, especially for a one-armed assassin. That is, if my hunch is right regarding the identity of the mystery shooter. A hunch based on the fact that I'm still alive to **_make_** such a hunch in the first place.

But enough with the deliberating, time to make good with my escape.

I begin rocking the chair from side to side until it eventually topples over, then wriggle myself free like the snake I almost swallowed only moments ago. Ah, Vincent. The very same snake I spot cosily making its way deep with the bowels of it's recently deceased master.

Poetic perfection.

That's when I spot it. Underneath the desk, attached behind one of it's legs, a small electronic device that looks a lot like a high-end government issue radio transmitter.

My hunch proved right. She was listening in the _whole_ time, playing me as bait, I guess. Eagerly soaking up all that juicy intel Grey was precariously spilling forth. At least it goes some way to confirm she's somehow tied in with us 'good guys'. Even though it leaves a lot more questions unanswered.

So, now I have two options before me. One, I go through the front door and risk getting **shot down **by the rest of Grey's flying monkeys, no doubt scouring the mansion at this very moment in search of their master. Or two, I take the office window, Bourne-style. There's a pool out in the back, should make an adequate landing. But then I'm **_still_** not entirely convinced Miss Non-syllabic wont shoot me now just the same.

"Ok 'Bourne' or whatever your real name is...!" I announce, loud and clear for her to hear. "By now you must know, I pose you no real threat... that we are both fighting on the same side, figuratively speaking... so when I stand up... slowly, and with my hands in the air... I need to know everything will be... well, cool... between us. Ok?"

Silence. Typical, but I hate it all the same. Guess I have to read into it as a non-verbal agreement, even though doing so last time nearly cost me my life.

I quickly check the discarded earring transmitter on the floor for a signal. Nothing. Then slowly stand, hands in the air, making no sudden moves, and wait.

Nothing. No bullets or shots fired. Nothing. Cool.

I'm halfway through snapping pictures of every important looking document on the desk, before I decide on simply sweeping the bloody lot into my nifty little handbag. Then, standing on the desk, I use the lighter's natural function to trigger off the water sprinklers. The water will drench the guests and staff alike, who'll in turn, exit the building in a blind panic. Easy cover, for when I make my dive into the pool in the backyard to escape.

Still, so many questions that need answering...

Secret super soldier programmes? The Bucket List? How does Grey fit in with all of this? What's Bourne's connection with Grey? Who put the hit out on the old man? But most importantly, who's the bitch wandering around the streets of Russia wearing my bloody face? Hopefully Q's found a few answers on my return. Speaking of which, he must be worried out of his little mind over me. Big mind. Whatever.

"Alright, Bourne," I shout out once more. "If you're still listening, I just wanted to say... about the arm... I'm sorr-" I never get to finish my sentence, as a 33mm bullet rips through the side of my arm. It's a clean precision sweep, nothing severe, just a shed load of pain. Guess this pretty much makes us even. Guess I should have kept my pretty mouth shut.

I tear a piece of material from a dead guy's shirt and use it to dress the wound. Then I make my way over to the balcony, as the manic commotion caused by the alarm continues to run its course downstairs.

As I stand there, in pain, on the edge and about to jump, I can't help but chuckle to myself.

"Standard snatch and dash, eh? When is it ever?"

To be continued...


	6. File 6: The Debrief

**FILE HB007/006**

MI6 HQ. London. Reception.

I'm sitting there outside M's office, in my pastel-grey Armani power suit and freshly dressed arm bandage, waiting to be called in, trying to shake that 'waiting with dread outside sister Mahita's office' vibe from when I was back at boarding school. Having already submitted an, admittedly vague, mission report for Puerto Rico, M's request to see me could only be interpreted as a very good or very bad thing. I'm hoping for the former, but who am I kidding?

At this present moment, he's tied up in an important meeting with an oversees correspondent. Seems to be a lot of new players bouncing in and out of the office these days. Something's brewing in the spy world, I can smell it.

Eventually, the door to his office opens and out walks yet another new player. In his 50's, slightly rotund and dressed in a sharp grey-stripped suit, he looks at me curiously, before heading off towards the main lobby lifts. Intriguing.

"M will see you now, Miss Fleming." announces the young secretary at the desk, before returning her gaze to the flickering laptop screen in front of her.

"Thanks, Moneypenny." I reply, as I cautiously make my way into the room.

Ah yes, the 'Miss Fleming' part. Only a choice few know who I **_really_** am... The 'safer option' according to the new M. His first suggestion made to my father upon taking up the mantle of head of MI6, following his predecessor's unfortunate demise nearly three years ago in Scotland.

The other two being, Q, the archetypical genius-nerd with an ego the size of china. And lastly, Bond senior, my father. The most decorated, not to mention, respected agent on the MI6 roster. Although, to be fair, he pretty much sucks at everything else fatherhood-related.

But, whatever.

Inside the office, I see M standing by the window behind his desk, silently gazing out of it, hands clasped firmly behind his back. I help myself to a seat and wait patiently whilst he remains, standing there, somewhat enigmatically, for what seems like eternity. The only sound to be heard being the grandfather clock ticking hypnotically away.

Finally he greats me, verbally at least, as he remains standing, back still towards me.

"Bond."

His tone's a bit off, which is never a good sign.

"M." I reply, in likewise fashion.

"How was Puerto Rico?"

"Wet. Is there an update on the intel I retrieved? It's been at least 48 hours and I wanted to-"

"The intel is still being processed." he interrupts, before returning to that awkward silence. Yep, definitely like being back at boarding school.

"You saved a lot of young lives by eliminating Grey, and ending his operations." he continues, finally. "A lot of young lives that would no doubt owe you a world of gratitude, had they been aware of your actual existence, that is."

Where is he going with this?

"The fact those women get to trade _modern day slavery_ for a 'normal' life, is gratitude enough, I think." comes my reply.

"Indeed." comes the short response.

He finally turns to me, and takes a seat. Hands still clasped firmly together, resting on his lap, his piercing eyes read into my every reaction, my every thought. This is bad.

"The problem with this world we live in, Bond, is that 'normal' tends to be an increasingly relative term. One man's disgust, can easily become another man's obsession. Which of us, in the end, can **_truly_** define that which is 'normal'? Some would even go as far as to argue that its not our place to decide."

"And they usually turn out to be the one's with the most to hide. By _my_ experience, anyway."

"True. But _**that's**_ where we come in. We observe, we plan, _**then**_ we make our move. But _not, _I will add, a moment sooner."

"I'm sorry, M, but is there a _**point**_ to all of this...?"

"A point? The 'point' Bond, is that you were given specific instructions to retrieve that intel _without_ incident. Now, I'm sure even **_you_** would agree, that a full-blown assassination in the middle of an international gala banquet, kinda **_misses_** that point, by, say, a **country bloody mile?**"

Yep, it's bad.

"And this is not the **_first_** time you've struggled to 'align' yourself with what _most_ would describe as 'basic mission parameters', is it Bond?"

"Ok... aren't you forgetting the whole speech about... 'gratitude'... and... 'saving lives'...?"

"Do you any clue as to the number of years that have gone into _planing_ this operation? **_Every_** operation? We don't just grab these ideas from the pages of the nearest spy novel. Each and every move we make is calculated with nigh on surgical precision, to the letter, by the bloody second!"

"M..."

"No! You don't get to talk, you get to listen!" he tells me, standing to his feet. "One of the papers you retrieved, analysed by our team, was revealed to have had an encoded message hidden within it's text."

"Let me guess, seven randomly misspelt words, the second letter of each word when re-arranged spelt Quantum, ergo, means my initial hunch was right going in. Just like the letter I retrieved from the fund raising event in Chillé, "

"But here is the rub, Miss Bond, your little stunt in Puerto Rico just may have sent whatever members of the organisation, scurrying far deeper underground than they ever where, setting us back years of prep work, not to mention-"

"Ok M, I get it. It was a bad move. But the situation wasn't as cut and dry as you may think. Besides, it wasn't **my** finger behind the trigger. There was this other wom-..."

"Save it, Bond. What, you think because of _who_ your father is, you're somehow... **_exempt_** from the rules? That you should be granted 'special favour', is that it? Maybe we've all been kidding ourselves as to the success of this little arrangement we have!"

"Okay, do you want to know what I think? I think my _considerably_ **successful** track record out in the field, and as an analyst prior to that, taking into account the little to _no_ time Ive been operational, **_should_** go some way to my proving myself a valid asset **_beyond_** the safety confinement of my fathers name! And, whilst by no means constituting to a 'free pass', should at the very _least_, grant you an opportunity to **cut me some frigging slack!** ...Sir."

Silence. Awkward as ever.

M calmly takes a seat, shuffling a few random sheets of paper on his desk, before leaning back into his chair, casually and sighing. The atmosphere is palpable.

"You are to report to 'Psyche evaluation', immediately." he commands.

"With all due respect M, I don't think that's nes-"

"With all due respect, Bond, I don't give a _**damn**_ what you think is necessary! It **_wasn't_** a request. Dismissed."

I wait a moment or two, purely for effect. Then I get up and silently leave. No last quips, sly remarks or door slamming, just a sharp and simple exit.

Of course, I know what's really happening here. M has taken it upon himself to temporarily add 'surrogate father' to his list of duties here at MI6, in absence of my own father. He's worried for my safety. The reason he's been sending me on 'sight seeing' ops, each holding a minimal threat of getting my hands dirty. Good thing I made some 'choice' omissions to my field report, namely my brush with a certain 'reptillian cuisine' on Grey's specialised menu.

As for my actual _biological_ father, since being re-united with him for the first time only a few years back, I barely see him about anymore. In fact, the last mission he was reportedly on was so secret his name's barely mentioned anymore. Most I can do to handle his absence is to not think about him. Mentally block him from my thoughts, until eventually, I forget he even exists. Just as I'd done all those years.

Yeah, its dark, twisted and physiologically ill-advised, but that's the world we live in. Dark and twisted. And that's how I've taught myself to live in it.

Damn. I'm actually thinking about him now! Gee, how's **_that_** plan working out for you, Holly?

Phone's vibrating. Text message coming in. It's Q.

_"Hey Blondie! Should M leave you the use of those killer legs, use em to come see me. Lol. Kinda urgent." _

He always manages to put the closest thing to a smile on my face. Suppose it can't hurt to make a small detour en-route to the shrink.

To be continued...


	7. File 7: The Q

FILE HB007/007 - The Q.

MI6 HQ. London.

I take the elevator to the sub-basement level and begin my walk down the long concrete hallway, passing everything from Tech Gyms to Firing Ranges to an olympic-sized Swimming Pool, until I reach the last room on the left. Its somehow darker and more dingy at this end of the corridor, with a thick stench of sulphur dominating the air and walls sporting patches of enough shades of grey to make that twisted prick in those romance novels envious.

No, I'm not a fan.

I _am _a fan however of_ Q._ Not that I'd ever let him know. Either that or risk having his _head_ swell to planetary proportions. But for a kid roughly my age, he's garnered a considerable amount of respect and praise from just about everyone in the agency. Especially for his relentless pursuit of technological breakthroughs and scientific perfection, just as his father once did before him.

I, on the other hand, have to fight for even the _merest_ _**hint**_ of faint praise. Always an uphill struggle even when life is going downhill. Not that Im bitter, of course. Im not. Don't have the time, really.

Eventually, I find myself outside the door to his lab. I could knock, but its always much more fun just storming in. I never quite know what to expect.

"Ok Nerd, what's the 911?" I announce, upon entry.

"Blast, Holly! Don't you ever knock? I could have been doing... well, _anything_. And don't you mean 'the 411'?"

"Not according to the 'Online Urban Dictionary'. The '411' is information, you said it was an emergency..."

"The Online... did you really just... forget it! How was Puerto Rico? Bring me back anything?"

"Got you a fridge magnet?"

"I meant pieces of my tech, Holly. Usually brought back to me **_in_** pieces!"

Silence.

"It's a **_ceramic_** fridge magnet with built-in clock?"

"I don't know why I bother! It's not like... whoa!"

His eyes flicker over my bandaged arm and accompanying facial scratches and bruises, like he's only now just noticed them, as he winces at what he sees. And I wince internally, in _response_ to his external wincing.

"It's nothing." I tell him dismissively, turning away. "Worse than it looks. You should see the other girl's **fists**."

"Nothing, eh? Would hate to see what a '**_something_**' looked like!" he mumbles.

"Keep pushing, nerd, and you'll **find out**!"

"Take it your meeting with M was the **_usual_** explosive disaster?"

"Of 'Michael Bay' proportions! Now, was there an actual reason you wanted to see me? I've got an important date with a shrink!"

"I... well... just wanted to... know if you had returned my... stuff." he spurts out, rather cryptically.

"Really? Gee, thanks nerd. 5 minutes of my life I wont be getting back...! Next time, include it in the text, will you?"

Just as I'm about to get up to leave, Q does something out of the ordinary, even for him. Pressing his index finger to his lips, he takes out a ballpoint pen from his top draw and twists the head anti-clockwise, beckoning me forward as he leans towards me.

"Audio wave disrupter! We've got about 60 seconds!" he whispers, before continuing. "MI6 lab-coats claim to be hitting a wall, running that intel you brought back from Peurto Rica.

"Okay, well do your thing. Offer some assistance." I suggest.

"Tried. The Chair wont let me anywhere near it! Claiming Level 5 sensitivity above my clearance. Above **_my_** clearance? Level 5 **B.S. **more like."

"So, leave em to it! More 'game time' for you, right Master Chief?"

"So not the point, Holly. Just what was it you **_found_** out there?" he asks.

"Nothing. At least, nothing out of the norm. Well, norm being a strictly relative term."

"This situation's anything but normal! I'm telling you, H, something stinks worse than a 100 year-old corpse!"

"You mean... like a **_200_** year-old corpse?"

"Im serious, Holly, something's going on, a _'behind the scenes'_ something. M's acting all weird. Well, weirder than normal... lots of new faces coming and going... so I decided to do some 'scouting around' of my own and ran some of those names Grey mentioned through ShadowNet! That's when I found-"

"What's a 'ShadowNet'?" I ask.

"Think 'juggernaut' programme built from the ground up, around a complex next-gen algorithm, designed to storm through even the most high-end firewall defence systems, undetected."

"Right. So, **_what's_** a ShadowNet?"

"**Software programme, designed by Birkhoff!** a friend of mine from MIT, back when he was working for Division. Look, the point is-"

"Who's Division?"

"Five seconds. Damn it, Holly, what I'm trying to say, is that everything you and I heard in Puerto Rico was-."

And at that very moment, his pen starts to beep. Three times, in fact.

"Ok, well good luck with the... shrink... meeting!" he says, rising from his chair to attend to one of the many prototype 'spec-techs' littering his office. Leaving me to ponder what the heck just happened.

Whatever it is, it's something he doesn't want anyone else to hear. Never seen him this highly strung. Whatever the case, I decide to play into his scenario. For now. And get up to leave, as normally as possible.

"See you around, nerd." I tell him.

He doesn't reply. Doesn't even look back. Simply waves his hand dismissively as I exit the room.

To be continued...


	8. File 8: The Shrink

**FILE HB007/008 | The Shrink**

I'm sitting in an office in a nearby offsite location, waiting for my post-mission psyche evaluation to begin.

The reason it's _offsite_, is to help operatives '_physiologically distance themselves from 'The Job', in order to better assist in creating a stable mental state of objectivity!' _At least, that's what it reads in the brochure I'm holding.

A few sessions already in, and I can neither confirm or deny that strategy works. But then I'm really just here to put a tick in the preverbal 'compliance' box, anyway, so who gives a damn!

Well, he does, my doctor on hand, Dr Aram Mojtabai. Who, at this very minute, is busying himself retrieving my file from his huge beast of a filing cabinet in the corner of the room.

"Ah, here we are!" he announces triumphantly, before slamming the cabinet draw shut and making his way back to his desk. It's a big room, so it takes a while.

This will be the fourth time he's had the pleasure of my company, in as many months, and he's _still_ no closer to cracking my 'outer-shell', as he calls it. In fact, Ive had more success getting under _his_ skin, than him under mine, so I'm guessing he'll want this over with even quicker than I do.

Which suits me to perfection, as right now my mind is **_still_** on Q, or more to the point, what he was _trying_ to tell me back in his lab. What could it have been?

"Good afternoon, Agent Fleming!" he formally greets me, as he readies himself behind his desk.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Lector." I respond with a wry smile, as we kick off with our first round of verbal tennis.

"I see you're recent injuries have done nothing to _dampen_ your 'acute' sense of humour" he notes.

"Wait a minute... did you just call me 'cute'?" I tease.

"Might I remind you, these confidential sessions are to be taken quite seriously. After all, they _are_ designed with _your_ benefit in mind!"

"Really? And I thought _you_ were the one being paid for them?"

"Perhaps we should just begin?"

"Only If we must?"

"I'm afraid, we must."

"Then, let us begin!"

15/Love. Holly.

He pauses, then starts to scribble away on his note pad, with great intent. I can't see what he's writing, but I'm convinced it's nothing more than a crossword puzzle.

"Now, I'll need you to close your eyes for me, Miss Fleming."

"And do what, doctor, make a wish?"

"Focus. Actually. On the sound of my voice and my voice alone. Rid yourself of any and all distractions, both visual and mental. And when you are ready, I want you to begin to tell me about... Puerto Rico."

Ok, this is a different direction, not to mention a tad weird. But ever the curious cat, I decide to play along.

"Puerto Rico." I begin. "Well, statistically, it's a popular destination for American expatriates who want to live out their retirement in the tropics. A Catholic country, where the average life expectancy is roughly 77 years, one of the highest in the world, to date! Only, don't tell _Mr Grey_... I believe he was... 76 when he eventually depart-?"

"Your mission, agent Fleming. I was referring... to your mission."

"Oh, of course. The _mission_ in Puerto Rico. Well, it was largely a success!"

"Largely?"

"Give or take a detail or two."

"Which details?"

"Ok, is this a therapy session or a debrief?"

"Perhaps a bit of both? I am... merely attempting to learn more about the thought process behind the agent holding the gun."

"Problem; I've never fired a gun in the field."

"And off the field?"

"Different story."

"Humour me."

"It's a **_long_** story."

We have time.

"A **_very_** long story. And I'd rather not."

"I see."

"Good. Now do yourself a favour and 'hear', too. I don't appreciate this... new direction of yours. Stick to the script or find yourself somebody else to interrogate. Capisce?"

He scribbles some more, occasionally glancing up at me over the rim of his spectacles.

"Please, miss Fleming, if you could resume closing your eyes... now slowly count backwards from 10... to one..."

I do as he says. One last time. But in my mind he's already blown it.

"Interesting term you've used, miss Fleming, '**interrogation**'?"

"If you... say so."

"I understand the report you filed detailing your **very own** _'interrogation__' _at the hands of your captor was... sketchy, to say the least? Perhaps, some trauma-filled event suffered during the mission, unwillingly played a part in the omission of one or two of those... _critical_ details we spoke of?"

"Okay, doc, time's up! I warned... _whoa_... I... warned... there would... wait... a...?"

Something's wrong. Cant move. Can barely even speak. Paralysis-based nerve toxin... circulating the room. His voice... can't turn my head to see him, but the faint echo tells me it's now coming to me via a speaker of some sort. On his desk. He's no longer in the room.

"Given that you are an agent of... considerable ilk, I find it unreasonably difficult to believe **_any_** amount of trauma could facilitate such... butchery of important mission-based fact recordings. Which leads me to only one conclusion..."

"You...! Who... are... you?" I ask. Barely.

"My sentiments exactly." replies the voice.

And that's the last thing I hear before everything goes black.

To be continued...


	9. File 9: The Room

**FILE HB007/009 | The Room.**

_"The first thing you should know about us, is that we have people everywhere!" _

Thats what Mr. White warned my father when he 'apprehended' his ass, back in 2008.

Who's Mr White?

One of the many extremely intelligent, sociopathic and not to mention, ruthless leaders of Quantum.

What is Quantum?

A shadowy organisation connected to the highest circles of government and corporate power in the world, a.k.a. 'bad guys'!

Very, **_very_** bad guys.

Like, if there was a bad guy scale of 1 to 10, they'd be an easy 11. Maybe even a 12. Heck, lets crank it all the way up to an unlucky '13'!

Who'd have know, nearly 7 years on since their involuntary exposure, those very same nefarious 'roaches' would still be scurrying around the underbelly of our society?

Guess, I should have known. Cause I bloody well do now.

There's darkness.

And voices in my head, asking me questions. No, just _**one**_ voice. One question. It's the shrink. Can't quite make out what he's saying. Can't move my hands either. Where am I? Need to get my bearings. Need to...

"Wakey-wakey!" the voice teases, before a rush of Ice cold water slaps me hard in the face.

Now I'm _awake_, alright. And extremely pissed off! This was a £127.95 hairdo and a £465 suit.

"So glad you could join me for today's 'Ice Bucket' challenge!" he gleefully quips, like some lunatic gameshow host right out of Alice in Wonderland.

"I understand you've been in this situation before, so you _should_ be quite familiar with how it all works. If, indeed, you have been in this situation before?"

"Not gonna feed me some speech about how much you love pets, are you?" I ask, scanning my immediate surroundings.

We're in a room. Alone. 10/10 feet. One door to my left, one window to my right, no furniture in-between. Just the chair I'm sitting on. The bird on the window ledge outside tells me we're at least a few floors up. Arms handcuffed behind my back tell me this isn't part of a normal therapy session.

"Now, Im going to ask you a series of simple questions and do be quite thorough with your answers." he informs me.

"Sure, no problem." I reply. "But could I at least have some _water_ first, my throats a little parched? And preferably in a **_glass_** this time."

"What is your _real_ name and purpose at MI6? And what was your _connection_ to Mr Grey?" he asks, cutting straight to the point.

Bulge at the side of his waste, barely visible through his suit jacket, tells me he's more likely packing a sidearm, than simply happy to see me. But it's holstered. His mistake. I'll only have one crack at this. Which is good, as I'll only **_need_** one crack at this.

"_'Mr_ Grey?" I ask. "That's rather _formal_ isn't it? You're an 'accomplice' of his, I take it? But then isn't _**every**_ member of Quantum?"

I'm checking for a reaction, he's trying to mask it. But he'd make a terrible poker player, as he reads like a pop-up book. Something about the mentioning of that name... he's uncomfortable with. Not sure where he's going with _his_ line of questioning, though. Either way, I need him to come closer.

"You really _are_ quite a beautiful girl." he observes.

"So everyone keeps telling me." I reply.

"And whilst it would be a shame to **destroy** such a pretty little face, be certain I have absolutely _no_ reservations in doing so. So I will ask you... one... last... time."

Need him to come closer, leave no room for error. I'll have around 7 seconds to make my play, before whoever is _probably_ watching storms into this room.

"What is your _real_ name and purpose at MI6?"

I slowly tilt my head down low and mumble something inaudibly.

"What was that? Speak up!" he says, agitatedly leaning in slightly, hands on his hips. Closer. I need him to come closer, so I murmur once more.

"You, my dear, are stretching my patience _way_ beyond its limitations..." he barks, as he storms over to me and leans in real close. Perfection.

I lift my head with as much force as I can muster, catching him in his left eye. He's dazed and stumbles backwards, momentarily in shock.

7 seconds. Need to make them count.

I crack my left thumb out of its joint before sliding the hand out of the cuffs altogether.

5 seconds.

The pain's sharp, but I use it, and follow up my attack with a swift palm strike to his nose. A cracking sound echoes around the room, followed by a jingling of keys in the lock of the rooms door.

3 seconds.

Twirling the cuffs around his neck, I hoist him up onto my back and begin chocking him. He's trying to tell me something, but I'm not interested. Had **_your_** chance, mate.

1 second.

The door bursts open and I spin his half-chocked, spluttering body around to use as a make-shift shield, whipping his gun out from under him in the process, just in time to line up the next attacker in my sights, who happens to be M.

Wait a minute, M?

"Holly! That's enough." he screams pointing his weapon at me. "Stand down, and I will explain everything!"

This should be good.

No, this _**better**_ be good.

To be continued...


	10. File 10: The WhoWhenHow?

**FILE HB007/010 | The WhoWhenHow?**

You know those days when your caught in a three-way Mexican standoff between you, your agency boss and the company psychiatrist?

No?

Well, there's always a first time, and today seems to be mine.

Yes, we're still here. Somewhere. Inside a room, somewhere. Inside a building. Somewhere.

I'm standing there, pointing the shrink's weapon at M, who's pointing **_his_** weapon at me, whilst being sheiled, involuntarily of course, **_by_** said shrink.

Naturally, I _could, in a heartbeat, _just pop one between M's eyes for convenience sake, finish off the 'shrink', then nip into my local pharmacy on the way home for some pain killers. My arm's absolutely _killing_ me at this stage.

But then I'd _still_ be no wiser as to...

_**"What the bloody heck is going on?"**_

"Stand down, Holly... like I said, I can explain everything!" repeats M.

"You know, you keep _saying_ that? But I'm **_still_** not _hearing_ anything by way of an explanation."

"Look, I'll talk, alright, just not with a bloody gun pointing to my face!"

I take a moment to think about it, then reply "Fine." and reposition my gun to the side of the shrinks head.

"Great! Thanks for that, M." barks the good Doctor, bloody nose and all.

"Dammit, if you'd waited till I got here as advised, this situation would be... _better contained!"_

He pauses for a moment, as if to weigh up his options. Then, slowly lowers and holsters his weapon, keeping both hands clearly visible the entire time.

"Ok, now everyone's happy... mostly, anyway... why don't you start talking?" I ask.

"The plan was never to hurt you... at least, not the real you. But rather to determine wether you were really you, and not... someone else!" he explains, somewhat unclearly.

"Right!" I reply. "Well why didn't you just **say** so?" Before slamming the butt of my gun into the side of the shrink's head, who in turn, lets out a surprisinly feminine cry. "Perhaps _**you'd** _like_ to_ give it a try, doc?" I ask him.

"Hey, no problem, I'll talk! I'm _good_ at talking! I'm a _shrink_ for crying out loud. Well, _supposed_ to be... Just, please, don't hit me again?"

What a wuss.

"H-have you heard of an organisation called 'The Shop'?" he stammers.

"No. What do they sell, online skincare products?"

"Technology!" interrupts M.

"And we're not talking tablets and mobile phones, either." adds the shrink. "Think next-gen advances in warfare, Nasa-level interfaces, technologies that wouldn't look out of place in a James Cameron movie."

"Ok, so more bad guys for MI6 to take down! Keeps us from dying of boredom, right? That still doesn't explain the impromptu _wet t-shirt _tryouts I've just engaged in?"

"Oh, right. My apologies." says the shrink.

"Somebody already _has_ taken them down, Bond, permanently. Back in 2013, a rogue US government operative by the name of Nikita Mears, along with just a handful of fellow agents took on the organisation and cancelled their major operation. But not before their most coveted _secrets_ were put up for auction on the Black Market and sold, for a considerably small fortune by a certain **Dorian Estevez Grey."**

"Grey? What kind of secrets?" I ask, interest now peeked.

"That's the scary part!" comes the familiar voice behind me. I spin around to see...

"Q?"

"Holly."

He's clutching a small rucksack stuffed to the seams with various scraps of paper.

"M took some convincing he could trust me and I him, when I went to see him after you left, Turns out the situation's far worse than imagined, H."

"I don't know, Q, I can imagine quite a bit."

"I had to grill you hard, Holly, to get a clear enough profile read on you. But still wasn't convinced, so put you onto Mohinda for further detailed evaluation." explains M.

"Apologies again for my getting carried away agent Bond." says the shrink.

"Ok, now somebody, I don't care who, tell _me_ what is going on!" I reply, releasing the shrink and tending to my throbbing hand.

M steps forward and cautiously begins to explain. Nothing could have prepared me for what that explanation was.

"We have recent confirmed intel that Quantum have indeed resurfaced, and have infiltrated not only MI6, but a large number of intelligence agencies around the globe. Part of what we believe to be a larger as yet undisclosed endgame. We're working closely with various allies across the waters to maintain a tight lid on this and prevent mass panic from tearing apart our society.

The visitor in your office.

Director of International Affairs, Richard Parker. Himself, runnin a similar protocols are being carried out by those agencies.

Now, we have no idea how deep this parasite has dug itself, or which of the agents have or haven't been compromised.

"That was my job." adds the shrink. "Pose as a psychiatrist, create profiles for each of your agents, compose a list to determine those who are under suspicion."

"Okay, but this still makes no sense." I say. "And still doesn't explain why the drastic measures? You've dealt with infiltration before, albeit on a smaller scale..."

"No, not like this. Nothing **_quite_** like this." Insists Q.

"The 'intel', you retrieved from Grey detailed, among other things, an experimental surgical process he'd purchased on the black market codenamed: **Project XIII**." explains M.

"As in the _Sally Sheridan_ _assassination_? Come on, that's a conspiracy theorist's fantasy!" I denounce.

"Make that 'a hardcore reality!" insists Q. "Advanced cell replication, pioneered by The Shop with the aim of achieving completely undetectable enemy infiltration. Imagine if you could _literally_ wear the face of your enemy! Walk among them, in their very shoes, be in the midst of their operations, without ever raising suspicion? Voice, skin, hair, eye colour... Imagine the advantage that would give you?"

Q, still the smartest guy in the room, just not making a whole lot of damn sense.

"Fancy dream." I say. "Wait, lets go back to where you thought I was one of these 'doubles' and hired Dr Frankenstein here to 'evaluate' me. Why the hostility?"

"There were... anomalies in your behaviour patterns... things you were clearly hiding from your report. Pieces that didn't quite fit together... I suppose..."

"You suppose? Im sorry, who are you again?" I ask.

"Aram Mojtabai." he holds out his hand. We shake. I secretly wince in pain.

"I'm an old associate of M's. We ran a few International Surveillance Ops together back in 98'. I normally work counter-intelligence for the NSA."

"Don't give up your day job." I tell him before turning to M. "Okay, say I buy this. What's our next move? Our primary goal?"

"Containment, at every cost. You'll run your field ops as normal. We don't want to raise any suspicion. But for every mission there will now be a _counter_-mission. You'll have complete carte blanche to be selective with whatever intel you submit in your reports until I say otherwise. Q will be on hand alongside you out in the field, but only as your eyes and ears, providing mobile tech support."

"Err... sorry, Q as in me? As in _this_ Q? Out _there? _In the... big bad... world?" asks Q. The crack in his voice betraying his normally cool and confident exterior.

"I'm inclined to agree with Mr Genius, there, bad idea!"

"For the time being, he'll be safer out there with you, than down in that basement alone! Of all our agents he'd provide the most challenging to replicate."

"Err... and that's an issue because...?"

"They'd be more inclined to simply stage your assassination instead." explains the shrink, somewhat insensitively.

"Oh." replies Q, who almost swallows his tongue.

"Now remember, all of you... trust no-one outside of these four walls. We'll rendezvous in 7 days. I'll be in touch."

"Fair play. So what's the first stop?" I ask.

"Russia!" announces M. "And a man named; Mikhail Doliński."

To be continued...


	11. File 11: The Flight

FILE HB007/011 THE FLIGHT

_Oh pain killers, oh pain killers, where would I be without you?_

Well, Holly, probably neck-deep in a _sea _of agony!

Of course the trick, as always, is to _not_ become _so_ dependant on you, that our semi-regular rendezvous start to become a life-terminating addiction! I have seen _way_ too many people I've admired in this world, check out of it permanently_, _via your _seemingly harmless _contributions to their pain relief.

In fact, I once read online that in the U.S. back in 2008, roughly 14,800 of the deaths caused by an overdose, where down to you alone. More than Cocaine and Heroin _combined!_

Damn.

Great way to _spoil_ your own party, Holly!

Naturally, I decide to _flush_ the damn pills down the toilet, and make my way back to the isle seat at the tail-end of the plane. Besides, pain's nothing a Vodka Martini can't fix. Although I did read somewhere that Vodka is the leading cause for... Ok, enough's enough, Holly. Focus on something else. Like the awful suction sound the loo's on aeroplanes make when you flush them! It's just... _wrong**.**_

"Ladies and gentlemen, we will shortly be landing in Moscow. The weather there is typically cold at -3°, so it's strongly advised that you dress accordingly, and wrap up warm!"

Thanks for the heads up, 'Captain', but none of us back here were under _any_ illusion we were heading down into the Bahamas. Although, he _did_ kinda have a nice husky voice. A bit like gravel churning in a cement mixer.

Back at the seat, Q is just as I'd left him 5 minutes ago. Still busy hammering away at the keys on his laptop like he was _mining_ them for gold. He's been uncharacteristically quite during the entire flight, so I can only imagine what's going on in that computer-like brain of his. Probably a meltdown of sorts, especially considering the task ahead of us.

"Hey Nerd, you okay?" I ask.

He doesn't hear me of course. That would be the fault of those _ridiculously_-sized headphones clamped to either side of his head like some double-yellow parked car. I lift up one end and make a second attempt at contact.

"I said; Are-you-**_okay_**?"

"Yes, I'm fine! Of course I'm fine! Why _**wouldn't**_ I be fine?" he responds in typically bullish fashion.

"Gee, I don't know..." I reply. "Maybe because of everything that's been happening? You being on your firstever field mission? I thought maybe you'd want to-"

"So there's been a lot of changes!" he snaps back. "So _what_? Changes are good! Without changes there would be no _development_... no growth! Do you know what happens when things don't grow, Holly? They die! Sometimes _**horribly!**_ Like being **tortured** to death... having your limbs slowly removed, one by one!"

O-_kay._

"My God, what would I do without these 10 little digits of mine?" he continues, inspecting each of his fingers in a trance-like fashion. "They're like... my _children! _Each one as important as the last. How could I _possibly_ choose between you? _**How dare they make me?**_ The scum!"

"Who? Look, Q, you _really_ need to calm down..." I tell him.

"What's that you say, 'another drink'? Don't mind if I do, Holly! Make mine a Vesper Martini with a slice of lemon... shaken, stirred, whatever!"

"I... think maybe you've had 'five' too many...?" I note, stating the bloody obvious.

"Really?" he replies, in mock surprise. "How about we do this; I order _what_ I want, when I want, in whatever _quantity_ I want it? You know, being a 'grown man' and all? Does that work for you, Holly?"

"How about you stop _throwing your toys out of the pram _and man the heck up? This isn't a honeymoon you and I are on! I need that brain of yours working at full capacity when we land, cause there's a hell of a _lot_ riding on this mission being a success!"

Cue, awkward silence.

Okay, so not the most 'understanding' moment of my life. But dammit, now _I'm _the one getting nervous, wondering if he's going to cope out there on the field! Wondering if he'll fold under any pressure? This isn't the flaming _live shows_ on _X-Facto_r, people's lives are at stake, including our own!

But then I catch my breath and remember _my_ very first field mission, and how that made _me_ feel.

"Okay, one last round!"I concede. "But after that, Q, it's triple expressos all the way!"

He vaguely nods in agreement.

"We _will_ make it through this, Q. I promise!" I grip him tightly by the hand, just for added assurance, of course._ "_Look, why don't we go through the mission schematics?"

"Okay, sure!" he agrees me, before bringing up a fact file on his laptop screen. "Okay, 'Mikhail Doliński' as you'll remember, was a name that sprung up during your mission in Puerto Rico. He's a 'middle man', a political pawn for hire, with secret ties to everyone from extreme fundamentalist groups to the Russian mob. He was the sole trade-link between Grey and Quantum, and hopefully he'll be doing us the same courtesy. _Involuntarily, of course."_

"So how do we find him?" I ask.

"Remember The Red Iron Club in Pittsburgh?"

"Not personally, but yes, the name rings a bell. We used it to shake down Grey back at the... wait, are you saying I have to...?

"The guy's under 24 hour surveillance, 7 days week, Holly. By either the Russian Feds or the criminals whose empires, his very existence, secures. The only time you'll catch him off guard is at _**that**_ club... for _obvious_ reasons."

"Obvious... reasons?" I ask, knowing I'll regret it.

"This isn't your average late night gathering of 'Diversity' wannabes, dear girl. Think; 'Eyes Wide Shut' meets 'Ibiza' by way of 'Tim Burton' and _maybe_ you'll get a _vague_ idea of what goes on in there."

"Great. So what's my cover; 'high class go-go dancer, with lofty aspirations of becoming a lawyer?"

"Sadly, no. You'll be posing as a black market 'tech-dealer', whose past ties to the pre-disbanded 'Shop', have enabled her to 'acquire' possession of an experimental chemical weapon they were working on. And is now looking for a buyer for a quick handover."

"Okay. But I don't _have_ an experimental chemical weapon, Q."

"Ah, yes. But _he_ won't know that, will he?"

"Right, _of course! .,._but what happens when he _does? _I ask

"Well then, you... we... **_I_** will worry about that when the time comes-_look_, just leave the details to me, will you?"

"Sure, no problem!" I tell him. "So, what do we do when we get our hands on him?"

"Nothing. It's not him we're after. Officially. It's a man they call; The Bookkeeper. A criminal accountant, both present and instrumental in every major arms deal of the last 5 years. He's the one MI6 wants. At least, on record." he tells me.

"And _off_ record?"

"Your _counter_-mission will simply be to milk Doliński dry of all intel relating to his connections to Quantum. M wants to know everything! _How_ he contacts them... who his contact _is..."_

"Fair enough. Ah, Q... I'm going to need you to... well... help me run a quick counter-mission of my own. _Completely_ off record, of course!" I ask him.

"Ahh... okay... you mean like a **_counter_**-countermission?" he asks, understandably nervous.

I hate the idea of putting him up to this, but something's not adding up regarding this whole 'secret mission' thing my dad's supposedly on. And I need to know the truth.

"I need you, Q, to utilise your connections... this 'Berkof' friend of yours ... anyone who can assist in uncovering everything relating to my father's current mission."

"_Riiight_. Your 'father' being commander James Bond...? And by 'current mission' you mean the top secret, off the record, not to be spoken of, let alone _acknowledged_, highly covert operation he's been involved in for the better part of a year?"

"One and the same!" I tell him, apprehensively.

"Sure." he replies with a simple shrug, before turning his attention back to his laptop.

There are only a handful of people I can depend on in this world I live in. And even fewer people I can trust, Q being one of them. In these current times, I'm going to need every one of those people to-_wait a minute!_ Did _he_ say "**_Sadly no"?_**

To be continued...


	12. File 12: The Club

FILE HB007/012: The Club

Russia.

Snow. _Lots_ of snow.

And a chill I can feel right down to the very marrow in my bones. Oh, how I _long_ for the days of Puerto Rico. Snakes and all.

But I'm here tonight on official business, not a holiday! Ok, I was _there_ for official business too, but this time the stakes are much higher.

Did I mention _colder_, too?

So... frigging... _cold!_

Of course, it doesn't help that Im practically wearing a scarf for a skirt, underneath this fake mink coat-_fake because of my strong animal rights views, you understand, not because Im a cheapskate_-But if I'm to impress tonight, I'll really have to go all out. Besides, having such a visual distraction normally proves fairly useful.

First up, they'll be another set of doormen to negotiate, only this time they'll be no guest list in sight, just some '_secret_ _phrase' _that must be uttered at the door. A phrase that changes every single night, the nights of which are chosen purely at random, as is the location the club is happening in. All very _clandestine_ for what should really be a simple night out.

The 'members', if you can call them that, each receive an SMS message _two_ hours before 'showtime'. The owner, apparently some _huge_ film buff, picks a memorable line from whatever movie he happens to be watching the night before. That line is communicated via the message along with the address. The members turn up, quote the line at the door and its on!

Today's slice of 'iconic utterance' happens to be a childhood favourite of mine. Not that that makes me feel particularly proud, considering the brief but rather stark picture Q painted of what actually _transpires_ behind those walls. But then he could just have been exaggerating. It is Q, after all.

I make my way towards the venue, navigating a maze of identical dark and dingy back alleyways, verbally led by said tech-geek, once again proving the voice of my subconsciousness for the night.

"Okay Holly, take a left through a large whole in a nearby fence and you should be almost there!" he advises, rather gleefully.

"Sure you've got it right, this time? Im guessing these guys won't be the average door muscle, so getting the phrase wrong could in fact result in a bullet between my eyes. Less we forget _last_ mission's _technological faux pas!"_

"Okay, A - _that_ wasn't my fault! And B - yes, tonight's secret catchphrase is sound! Well its not actually _the_ _word_ sound, but having hacked into that lowlife's phone you were pretending to get friendly with back at the last bar, I can pretty much confirm it. Good job, by the way! Told you it would all be a piece of cake!"

"'_Piece of cake'?" _I snap back. "That guy was the 6th bloke, in the 6th bar, I practically threw myself at, in hope that somebody would be a _member_ and invite me along. _And_ the S.O.B was married! _Already_ feel like I need a shower."

"Well, at least you didn't have to pose as his plus-one to get in, thanks to my geniusness, of course." he responds.

"You're 'geniusness'? Uh... Is that even a word?" I ask.

"Well, it will be once I've hacked into every major online dictionary on the web and **_added_** it!" he replies, in his annoyingly smug way.

_"__You're **impossible**, you know that, Q__?"_ I reply.

"Finally, some recognition from the Ice Queen!" he responds. "Long overdue, I'd say."

"Okay, I'm approaching what looks to be the entrance, two guys ahead." I whisper. "Requesting radio silence. Also long overdue, in my mind."

"Fair play. Good luck, Holly. And... be careful. Q out."

Hmm... he almost sounded sincere, that time. Almost.

On appearance, the building itself looks to be a very old and very large abandoned warehouse, with blacked-out windows and zero sign of any action going on inside. Even the two men outside appear to be just a couple of regular guys enjoying a late night smoke.

Okay, make that a couple of _heavily tattooed _guys who, whilst not particularly big in size, carry a certain way about them that informs you quite clearly, to underestimate them, is to put your life in immediate peril.

"Good evening, gentlemen!" I greet them, in considerably note-perfect Russian.

They exchange a slow silent glance with one another, then return their gaze to me. So much for formalities.

"Asta la vista, baby?" I quote rather awkwardly, not quite sure how I'm supposed to say it. Do I use my normal voice? Do I imitate Arnold? Should I be wearing sunglasses?

At first it looks like the line's a dud, as the two heavies exchange a second glance with one another, shifting their relaxed positions to a more 'ready' stance. Then one of them finally responds with a barely-visible smile, before proceeding to bang on the heavy metal entrance door, three times.

The sound of large mechanical latches being opened on the inside greatly enhances the creeping sense of anticipation as the great door slowly creeps opens.

I enter.

Inside, another doormen awaits. This one's smartly dressed, sporting a smart tux and a lot more personality. He welcomes me in Russian, slipping me a small piece of rolled up paper in my hand, before motioning me to make my way along the narrow poorly-lit corridor that leads on to an old industrial goods lift. Lights flicker on and off sporadically, as I walk. I don't know if its for show or simply lack of paying the electricity bill, but either way the tensions nothing short of palpable.

Curiously, no attempt has yet been made to frisk me or better yet, scan me for metal objects, potential weapons. An oversight, perhaps? Or maybe he just doesn't attract that kind of crowd.

I reach the lift doors and they open to reveal a third, much older man awaiting inside. I enter, and as I turn around to peer back down the hall, I clock some rather conspicuous-looking metal tubing lining the outside of the main door's entrance. Im guessing its some sort of high tech x-ray scanning device. Definitely military spec. And clever. If somebody _was_ packing heat, they wouldn't have a clue these guys were on to them, until it was too late.

The various dried blood splatters I see, decorating the inside of the lift doors as they close, confirms my suspicions. But Q's way ahead of _all_ you clowns.

As my lift companion and I slowly journey upwards in silence, I decide to take a look at the 'surprise package' handed to me earlier and unroll the small piece of paper to find a phone number scrawled onto it. Could be anything from the guy's personal mobile, to the local helpline, but what was wrapped _inside_ the piece of paper was what _really_ got me thinking. Cocaine. Roughly, quarter of an ounce. Just enough to loosen one up for a long night, I guess.

Thats when I begin to hear it. Music. And the higher we get the louder it becomes. Until the lift itself begins to rattle helplessly from the violent vibrations emanating from the heavy baseline. Must be some _serious_ soundproofing built into those windows.

The track's sheer old school techno. And to honest, pretty darn good. Definitely one to 'Shazam' if I get the chance. Which I'm pretty sure I wont.

Finally we reach the top floor and the lift doors open.

And as I look on at the 'party' in full flow, all I can think is... 'No... freaking... way!".

This might be a little trickier than I thought.

To be continued...


	13. File 13: The Dwarfs

*************REVISED CHAPTER****************

**FILE HB007/013: The Dwarfs**

_There's a scene somewhere along the halfway mark in the movie Blade 2, where Wesley and a truce-keeping band of bloodsuckers enter a secret night club to track down the main bad guy. _

_As he walks in he initially can't quite get his head around what he sees._

_Now, whilst to my knowledge there's not a vampire in sight, I can truly say I empathise with the Day Walker. Because as I look on all around me... well..._

_To my immediate left and right, in what appears to be tiny glass VIP booths extending out of the walls, various international guests are busy nonchalantly helping themselves to a pick'n'mix table of assorted hard and soft drugs like it was an 'all you can eat' buffet lunch._

_Further up ahead, a freakishly large tattoo artist sporting luminous green contact lenses and matching mohican, is busy creating masterpieces of abstract and obscure art on the shirtless backs of a handful of college kids who really should be in bed round about now. _

_Then I clock the male dwarfs. Dressed up like Orc extra's from a Peter Jackson movie, they uni-cycle their diminutive selves across the considerably large dry ice-clouded dance floor whilst skilfully balancing a tray of hors d'oeuvres as they bob and weave through the crowd._

_Not to forget the handful of 'court jesters' draped in the shiniest silk linen outfits this side of a Las Vegas Elvis impersonator, twerking to their hearts content in giant suspended bird cages, whilst simultaneously breathing fire, mere inches away from the seemingly oblivious party guests gyrating all around them. _

_Of all the names that would make up the guest list for this particularly particular swaray, 'Sanity' was definitely not among them. _

_Suddenly, out of nowhere, a cocktail waitress, dressed in a mini Little Red Riding Hood outfit no less, appears offering to take my coat. I let her have it, keeping a tight grip on my uniquely petite Q-edition handbag, being as its my only chance of getting out of here should things go south._

"Wow! Last time I saw red look _that_ beautiful, I was staring down at a bed of roses!" _shouts a rather jovial voice from behind me, clearly admiring the view. _

_The voice I recognise, even amongst all the noise. Distinct, familiar, like gravel churning around in a cement mixer. I turn to see the pilot. At least I presume its him. He's slim built, bearded, late 40's, and not at all what I expected. And as for the two brunettes standing under each of his arms, I don't know wether they're there to make him look important or simply prevent him from falling flat on his face._

"Speaking of bed," _he continues, in his semi-slurred tone. _"perhaps when this night is over you... and I... can maybe...?"

_Seriously? This actually works for him? Well evidently, Holly, it does._

"I am sorry?"_ I respond, keeping the Russian accent as thick and heavy as the vodka swirling around in his glass. _"Perhaps you are mistaking me for someone who finds flattery in such crude gestures, Mr...?"

"Lyndon," _he replies, quick-sharp in a non-appologetic, "_Patrick Lyndon. But please, call me Patrick."

"I will not be calling you at all, Mr Lyndon. Besides, it would appear you have more than enough on your plate already, no?" _I motion with my eyes towards the two wallflowers keeping his armpits warm. I should really be focusing on the mission, but deconstructing creeps like him is way too much fun to pass up._

"Wait, these two?" _he replies, wistfully laughing._ "they're the 'warm-up' acts! No offence ladies, it's been great, but you can go now!" _he tells them, dismissively waving them away. _" Now you, my fine blonde Russian beauty, you are the _main event!"_

_Wow. A real life graduate from the Dorian Grey school of 'How to make a prat of yourself'. Who would have known? Time to nip this one in the bud, Holly. Wasting valuable time you don't have. _

"Perhaps I did not make myself clear, Mr Lyndon." _I begin._

"Please, you really _can_ call me 'Patrick'!" _he re-iterates._

"A few minutes from now, Mr Lyndon, and I will be calling you an _ambulance! _Now, for the last time, leave me be. My purpose here is strictly business not pleasure. Enjoy your night."

_As I turn to walk away, he suddenly grabs my arm. I'm about to break his, when he tells me; _

"Hey look, Im _still_ your guy, _technically_ anyway. I'm an airline pilot. I travel a lot of places and meet a lot of people and one of them happens to be the owner of this club, Viktor Verzhbitsky. I do the occasional side job for him using my private jet... Kind of import/export... Oh wait, did I mention I had my own plane, before?"

_Ok, so this could be interesting. He's spouting way too much personal info in his desperation to impress, but perhaps the creep has a use after all_.

"So, you know manager _personally_, Mr Lyndon?" _I ask._

"Of course I do!" _he replies, "_But you really must start calling me Patrick, ok? Now this guy, Mr Verzhbitsky, he is _incredibly_ well connected. Whatever it is that you need, he can get it for you guaranteed!"

_Nice. Rhymes. _

"It is not what I _want, _Mr Lyndon, it is more what I have to _offer! _Perhaps you could... arrange meeting between us?" I ask.

"I could try, sure, but I can't promise anything. I mean, there's a whole line of people who would kill for just for just a few..."

"He _will_ see me." I interject, desperate not to let this opportunity pass me by. _"_Tell him; '_The Invisible Hand continues it's reach for greatness'. _He will understand."

"Really? What is that, from a movie?" he asks, looking more than a little perplexed.

"Mr Lyndon, you are wasting valuable time." I tell him, cutting him a look that would chip shards off of a diamond.

"Okay I get it. It's a Russian thing!" _He turns to leave._ "I'll be back in 5. Then you and I will have a talk about this name thing. Seems to be a disconnect somewhere or... some..."

_And with that, he disappears along with his mumbling into the lively crowd. Meanwhile, I decide a check-in with Q, who's probably going out of his mind with worry, is overdue._

"Nerdster, are you reading me?"

"Barely, where the heck have you been?" _he asks_, "I've been going out of my frigging mind! Which is kind of a lengthy process, taking into account just how _vast_ my mind actually is!"

"Missed you too! Now listen, there's been a change of plan, I'm already set for a meeting with Verzhbitsky, but I'll need you to run an open link in case I get stuck in a corner."

"Already set up and ready!" he tells me. "Now remember, this guy's a whole other level of bad! So you going in like you're the next Rosie Huntington-Whiteley' probably won't cut it. He is strictly business. May even look into testing you somehow. I don't know, his behavioural pattern's notoriously erratic, unpredictable..."

"Ok, I get it." I tell him, "So, you really think I'm the next Rosie Huntington-Whiteley?"

"What? Sure, why not," he tells me, "and I'm the next Ben Wishaw! Just make sure you place the mascara transmitter somewhere discreet. The ladies toilets'll be good. Although preferably not _in_ the actual toilet. And remember to switch the transmitter on."

_I grab a passing waitresses by her arm, to ask her to point me in the right direction. She winces slightly, as if in pain, before abruptly turning to me, almost confrontationally. Her oversized red hood masking the identity of her face. Just about the only thing that **is** covered, going by the minimalist nature of the rest of her outfit._

"I'm sorry." I tell her. "I just need you to tell me the direction of..." _Wait. __Somethings 'off' about her. About the way she's just standing there, staring at me in silence. Almost as if..._

"Hey Blondie!" shouts the voice behind me. I turn. "Mr Verzhbitsky will see you now."

_Damn. The pilot's timing sucks just about as much as the rest of him. I turn back to the waitress, but she's gone. Double damn. _

"Err, Holly, you don't set up that transmitter, you don't get out of there, period."

_Thanks Q, I'm aware of that. But not much I can do about it now. Pretty much screwed._

"Lead the way, Mr Lyndon." _I tell him. _

_"_Again with the 'Mr Lyndon'..." _he murmurs._

To be continued...


	14. File 14: The Ultimatum

**FILE HB007/014: THE ULTIMATUM**

_The Red Iron Club. Moscow._

_I'm in Verzhbitsky's private little room, within his private little club, having a private little meeting. Well, not so private, there's four other guys in the room._

_Verzhbitsky sits at one end of a small table positioned dead centre in the room. A shadeless lightbulb hangs directly above it. I'm sitting at the other end, with Lyndon to my immediate left. Three heavy duty bouncers stand at the ready behind each of us, and Im guessing the 'no weapons' rule never applied to them on entry._

_As ever Q's running surveillance, silently listening, waiting to feed me my lines in case I go dry. I can just about make out Lyndon in the corner of my eye, fidgeting with his tie. He loosens it, tightens it, then loosens it again. Meanwhile, the three surrounding heavies are standing so still I'm starting to wonder if they're even alive._

_As for Verzhbitsky, he really is as cold as they come, showing zero sign of emotion. Would probably make a heck of a poker player. As far as appearance goes, he's got this De Niro thing going on, it works for the most part and ties in neatly with the whole gangster theme._

_He's been staring at me in silence for at least a minute now. He's evaluating me, waiting to see if i'll panic and break that silence out of uncomfortable necessity. I don't. I just stare at him right back._

_Eventually he slides his digital wrist watch off, activates the stop-watch mechanism, then places it on the table in front of us so I can see it's face clearly._

"You have thirty seconds."_ he kindly informs me. But he's speaking so slowly it's probably already down to twenty._

"My name is Alexandra Sitarska."_ I begin_. "I spend four years working for Shop in research department, this before we were brought down by the American agent..."

"Nikita." _he cuts in._ "I am familiar with story. What I am not familiar with, is how you feature in it."

"What I want to know is what this 'Shop' thing is." _butts in Lyndon._ "And what was that 'Invisible Hand' line you had me recite earlier?" _He's sensing the atmosphere's palpable and trying his hand at defusing it. The fool._

"Mr Lyndon, I pay you to fly plane and transport goods." _starts Verzhbitsky._ "Not to talk. Confuse your responsibilities once more and I will have your tongue removed. Is that understood?"

_Well now, this is awkward. If Lyndon talks and says 'yes', it's likely Verzhbitsky will make good on his threat. If he says nothing at all, It'll be a sign of disrespect and he'll probably end up dead._

_He decides to play the smart card and nod profusely instead._

"The shop and The Invisible Hand are one and the same, Mr Lyndon. A secret organisation tasked for centuries with the creation of cutting edge technology the likes of which has never been seen. During this time I acquire blueprints to his unrealised project; Nexus 4X22, the next step in biometric warfare. The future in globalised terrorism."

"So, what you want is buyer, no?"

"What I want, Mr Verzhbitsky, is to get rich! What we all want, no?"

"Not quite." _he tells me, which frankly is never a promising start to a sentence._ "What I want to know is why a fellow Russian, in the presence of her comrades, would choose to speak business in English as apposed to her own mother tongue?"

_Yep, definitely not good._

"Holly, I'm not sure I like where this is going." _whispers Q into my ear. You don't say._

_The next line Verzhbitsky feeds me is completely in Russian._

**["Now granted, it could be a decision you have arrived at due to the presence of Mr Lyndon here also being in this room. Perhaps. Perhaps not. Truth is, for me to be sure you will have to do this... one little thing for me."]**

**["And what... would that be?"]**_ I ask, knowing full well I will not like the answer._

_He leans into the inside of his jacket and pulls out a gun. Then carefully replaces the watch that was on the table with it._

"Holly!" _whispers Q, _"Whats going on?"

"I want you to shoot Mr Lyndon in the head." _he tells me, like he was asking me to put the kettle on for him. Or switch the lights off because he wants to take a nap._

_Lyndon's face turns ash-white. Mine's not far behind._

"Mr Verzhbitsky, perhaps there has been a miscommunication of some kind." _I explain_. "I do not do this line of work. I am merely here to-"

"Yes, it would seem a miscommunication is definitely evident." _he replies, calmly. _"Allow my men to assist you in your moment of clarification."

_And with that, all three of his bouncers pull out their weapons and point them in my direction. This situation has officially gone south._

"So it goes like this; you pull that trigger or they will pull theirs." _he explains. Lyndon's loosing it by this time, sobbing like a child who's just dropped their ice cream in a pile of freshly laid turd. Basically, the kind of situation there's no coming back from._

"Mr Verzhbitsky," _he pleads, _"sir, if I have done you some level of wrong, please accept my humblest apology. It was not my intent." _But it's no use, he's not even looking at him._

_The heavies cock back the hammers on their pistols in unison, a clear sign of impatience. So I respond by reluctantly picking up the gun. Verzhbitsky himself remains silent and still. Watching._

"Please... I'm begging you...!" _continues to sob Lyndon._

_I don't hear him. I'm too busy admiring the gun, balancing it on the palm of my hand, buying the time I desperately need to think up a way out of this._

_The gun's a semi-automatic 9mm Strizh. The kind of firearm that was offered to the Russian Armed Forces and Police a few years back. It has a brushed metal finish, raised grips on the handle and weighs about 750 grams. 750 grams..._

"Miss Sitarska, I am not the kind of man you would want to keep waiting. To highlight this I will count to three."

_Damn these bad guys and their counting ultimatums. But I'm onto something here... I just pray to dear God I'm right._

_I aim the gun squarely at Lyndon. He raises his trembling hands up to shield his face._

"One." _begins the count._

"Alexandra, please! ...I have a family!"

"Two."

"Holly, you can't kill a man in cold blood!"

"Three."

_I pull the trigger._

To be continued...


	15. File 15: The Reveal

FILE HB007/015. The Reveal

_MI6 training for 00 status is extremely thorough. I remember mine like it was yesterday. One of the many detailed areas covered was the use of firearms. Names, distinctions, capacities... each lesson carrying with it a uniquely specific observation. Such as the difference in weight between a loaded gun and one that is empty. _

_Like the gun I'm holding right now._

The three heavies holster their weapons and revert back to their former catatonic-like state. Lyndon, meanwhile, lets out a deep sigh of relief then... smiles?

"Congratulations Alexandra, on passing the test!" _he informs me, with surprising glee. _

"A test, I presume, you don't have the luxury of failing twice?"_ I reply._

"Ah, don't be too upset. I remember when it happened to me. Took me bloody ages to pull that trigger, isn't that so Mr Verzhbitsky?"

_Only Verzhbitsky doesn't answer. He in fact pulls out a second gun, identical to the first, pulls the trigger and 'mails' the bullet, First Class, directly between Lyndon's eyes._

_A splash of blood crashes against the side of my face, as his body crumples to the floor in a lifeless heap. _

"I despise government agents." _quotes __Verzhbitsky, __casually._ "They are like cockroach. Always turning up unexpected and unwanted."

"Holly, I heard gunfire! Report!" _screams Q. __I say nothing. Verzhbitsky continues,_

"That man was CIA. But this was not your concern. Your concern was wether or not you could be trusted enough to do business with me. I believe so."

_Still, I say nothing. Damn it Holly, open your mouth!_

"Miss Sitarska?" _he asks, his __eyebrow arching ever so slightly. He gives the bodyguard standing behind me a sly glance. _

"Holly," _whispers Q,_ "Damn it, what's happening? " _The increased urgency in Q's voice triggers something in me. __Finally I open my mouth, _

**["If you only knew the length of time it took me to apply this make-up, you would be a little more apologetic."] **_I tell him. A little rudimentary, but It should suffice._

"You're ok, thank God!" _sighs Q with relief._ "Don't do that to me! I have no intel to back up his CIA claim... we need to abort the mission, you need to get outta there!"

_Might as well see it through to the end. So close now. Worst has got to be over._

_Verzhbitsky cracks the faintest of smiles, before uncharacteristically breaking out into full-on raucous laughter. The three heavies chuckle along with him, more out of fear than actually being in on the joke themselves. _

_He then signals the guy to my left and he politely hands me a tissue. I use it to wipe the foreign blood from my cheek, then rest it in the table in front of me beside the empty gun._

**["Now, if we could conclude our business, I have other matters to attend."]**

_He responds with a nod to the same guy and he disappears out of the room._

**["There are maybe 5 people in this world who are connected enough to bring you the right kind of buyer. Fortunate for you one of those happens to be a close associate of mine."]**

_I tell him, _**["Closer than Mr Lyndon, I hope."] **

_He doesn't see the funny side._

"Ok Holly, looks like it's finally happening." _notes Q, _"Remember, stick to the script. Leave the improv to the would-be thespians of the world. Lets wrap this one up nice and neat and get our asses out of here!"

_Behind me the noise level from the music raises momentarily as the door to the room opens and the sound of foot steps draws near, stopping just behind me._

**["Viktor, my old friend!"]** _says a voice. Male. Older. 50's perhaps._ **["I trust whatever this is, it's important enough to drag me away from my usual night of drugs and debauchery?"]**

**["Business always is, my friend. And do watch your step. I'll have the cleaner eventually remove that filth from the floor."]**

**["Ah yes, the debonair Mr Lyndon from Langley."]** _replies the voice_. **["I see you received my message about him. Several months is a long time to harbour a spy right in your very midst and not even know it. People will talk."]**

**["Then I will deal with _them_ as I have dealt with _him_! Now please, have a seat. I want to introduce you to someone."] **

_The man steps over Lyndon's body and takes his place at the table with us, turning to look at me. His face comes into view, partially lit by the dangling light, but somehow strangely familiar._

_Verzhbitsky proceeds with his introductions._ **["Mikhail, I would like you to meet..."]**

"Bond." _replies the man,_ "Holly Bond, of the British Secret Service."

To be continued...


	16. File 16: The Exposed

**The Exposed**

_'It's a small world.' _

_An old expression. Nobody knows how old, but its generally used to convey surprise when either people or events from seemingly random places are revealed to be connected. __Like; 'so, you know know Mr Westfield my old history teacher from school? Gee, it sure is a small world'._

_The day I went to see M for my debrief, I remember seeing a man exit his office; he was about 5"7, in his 50's, slightly rotunt and dressed in a sharp grey stripped suit. Hadn't seen him before, never saw him since. _

_Until now. _

_Now I'm staring right at the guy they call:__'Mikhail Doliński, __and a million questions are running through my mind like it was the London marathon._

"You must be asking yourself a million questions, about now, Miss Bond?" he asks.

_Wonder if he does lottery numbers too?_

**["You must have me mistaken with someone else."] **I tell him, calmly.** [Perhaps we can reconvene this meeting another time?"]**

_I go to get up, the heavy behind me pushes me back down._

"The daughter of the great spy, James Bond!" continues Doliński"This is such an unexpected honour. If you were here but 2 days earlier, the two of you could have had a cosy little family reunion. Such a pity."

"He's bluffing, Holly, don't listen to him." whispers Q, "There's no evidence to support commander Bond even setting foot in Moscow at this time."

_Ignore him. Right, I'm trying. But the idea that my father could have been here...? No, he **is** playing you, Holly, trying to get under your skin. Don't give him a reaction._

**["My father I have not seen, since that bastard walked out on my mother and I, when I was aged 6!"]" **I tell him, dismisively.

"Yes, he did abandon you at a young age, as did your mother. But you _have _seen him since, haven't you my sweetness?"

"Holly...!" whispers Q,

"Now I remember you." I tell him, trying to switch the focus, "MI6 a week ago, coming out of M's office. Tuesday 8th around 4pm, right?"

"I hear you loud and clear, Holly. I'm on it!" responds Q, just as I'd hoped.

**["What is this wench talking about?"]** asks Verzhbitsky, impatiently.

"I believe I know." he replies. "You have a very perceptive mind, Miss Bond. Quite fascinating too, going by the file I've read. Confident, singleminded, with shades of narcism, prone to violent outbursts. Severe distrust in men... 'Daddy issues' perhaps?

"An old file." I tell him. "probably about 9 when it was written."

"Yes, and at boarding school. One of several you visited, I do believe. Tell me, did daddy feed you lies about it being for your own protection? Now that you are older you Have accepted the truth, yes? That it was more for **his**!"

_His words... damn him and his words._

"I... know my father made... _many_ decisions in his life. Some of which he wasn't proud of, but all of which he would stand by one hundred percent!"

"We will see." he laughs. "But tell me, what is it that has brought _you_ all the way here from London?"

"The truth...? I heard this was a real banging club, and just _had_ to see for myself!"

"You have your father's annoying little habit of being resolutely stubborn. Tell me, do you also possess his unnatural tolerance for pain? Now tell me the truth! I know for a fact MI6... never... sent..."

_He stops mid-sentance, then gets up from his chair and walks to towards the wall. Something's clearly rustled his feathers. _

**["What is it brother?"] **asks Verzhbitsky.

"Somethings not adding up, H." whispers Q. "I cross-referenced internal MI6 camera footage that day of the guy coming out M's office, with Doliński's file... it's not him! Well it is, but it isn't. That face belongs to a 'Richard A. Harper', Director of International Affairs, government funded spooks from overseas currently working alongside our boys."

"Curious." I tell Doliński, "You talk like Mikhail, but you don't _look_ an awful lot like him!"

"Oh, this face? A temporary measure... in a... long term kind of way. If it were up to me I would have selected Brad Pitt! But such is my part to play in their larger plan."

**["Enough Mikhail, you talk too much. Kill her and be done with it!"] **shouts verzhbitsky.

"Only its not that great a plan, is it Mikhail? Not for you! I saw your reaction. And you know why I am here."

**["Mikhail...!"]**

"Still not convinced? Allow me to clarify; Quantum have infiltrated MI6, using a handful of shadow operatives who've undergone state-of-the-art surgery to pass as doubles of key members of the agency."

"Er... Holly? You don't win poker by revealing you're winning hand, before time, capishe?" comments Q, nervously.

"As a result of your ongoing 'assistance' to their cause," I continue, "you've brought a lot of unwanted heat your way, becoming something of a marked man in the process. Resulting in you having to undergo the treatment yourself. A win-win. You get to disappear-they have one more double on the inside."

_It's working. I'm piecing this all together as I go along, but it seems to be working, so I keep going._

."And what better face to hide under, than that of your own enemy... the head of the very same task force put together to bring you down; Director of International Affairs, Richard Harper."

_The room goes silent as Doliński wanders back over to the table and slowly leans towards me._

"You are your fathers daughter after all." he tells me. "Although you forgot to mention the part about the whole proceedure hurting like hell! I have to swallow a handful of pain killers every night, just to stop myself from scratching my own face off!"

"Pain killers. What would we do without them?" I deadpan. "Pretty good English, by the way."

"Oh, it gets much better 'an that, my dear girl!" he replies in a note perfect American accent

"Oh, did you hear the bit about me having to leave my wife... and children... for the better part of a year, as part of that deal?"

_He's softening. And Verzhbitsky is getting wrestless. Don't have much time._

"Which brings me to why I am here. Or did you really think the organisation would trust you to keep quite? With so much at stake for you to lose? MI6 sanctioned me to do what I do best. But we both know who's _really_ pulling those strings."

_Almost there..._

**["Enough of this... _rubbish_!"] **roars verzhbitsky, rising to his feet.

_Damn it!_

"No, wait!" shouts Doliński. "I must know specifics. Is my family safe?"

**["Well I have heard enough. I will shoot this blonde harlot, myself!"]** he lifts the weapon up off the table and aims it at me.

_Double damn it!_

To be continued...


	17. File 17: The Rematch?

**FILE HB007/017. ****The Rematch**

Impromptu. [im-promp-too, -tyoo]

_adjective _

a) Done without being planned or rehearsed.

_reality _

a) An unexpected Knock at the door that incidently saves my life.

Doliński reluctantly nods to the heavy standing behind me to go check it out. He does so, cracking the door ajar before peering around it.

It's one of the cocktail waitresses. I think. I can hear the voice, but can't quite make out what she's saying.

**["Mr Verzhbitsky never ordered no shots of _Tequila_, now scram!"]** he snaps at her, dismissively.

**["Really?]** shouts the waitress, "Then how about a plain ole shot of **lead**?!"

There's a 'splash' and the bodyguard screams in agony, holding his face as he stumbles backwards. Three shots are fired into his stomach, presumably from his own weapon. And I'm guessing, from the smoke simmering off of his face, that that was no _ordinary_ tequila she threw at it. That and the fact it now appears to be _melting away._

**["What...? K-KILL HER!"]** stammers Verzhbitsky at the other two, who open fire at her.

But the waitress keeps tight and close behind the big guy, now sporting a pizza for a face, and cleverly uses him to soak up every last bullet. Poor guy.

Meanwhile, I seize my chance to snatch the gun out of Verzhbitsky's hand with a lightning speed disarm manoeuvre, before putting a bullet of my own into his shoulder. He goes down.

Doliński reacts by grabbing the _second_ gun off the table and pulling the trigger, only to discover what I already know, it's empty. I respond in kind, by slamming the butt of my gun across his temple. He goes down and the two guards turn their attention on me.

I duck under the table as they pepper it with bullets. Shards of it's wooden surface splinter all around me. A stray bullet grazes my shoulder, but there's no time to acknowledge it.

From the ground I open fire at their exposed legs and listen as they collectively squeal in pain, buckling to the floor, just as the waitress steps out from behind 'Mr Swiss cheese' to put them both out of their misery with two direct head shots, bringing the whole bloody affair to a swift and violent close.

Silence governs the room, whilst outside the party rages on, uninterrupted.

"Damn it, Holly, talk to me!" screams Q. "What's your status? What the blazes is going on in there?"

"I'm good." I tell him. "You can bring the van around; Two to go!"

The waitress glances at me, but keeps her weapon pointed at Doliński, who's lying on the ground, still groggy from his head wound.

I keep my gun aimed squarely at Verzhbitsky, who just sits there smiling, defiantly, applying pressure to his wound like the pro he is.

Then I catch Lyndon's cold lifeless body lying there, in the corner of my eye, and start wondering; was he _really_ CIA? Did he really _deserve_ to die, regardless? I kept Verzhbitsky alive for questioning. But then, hey, I've got Doliński around for that.

Besides, I _hate_ being called a _harlot!_

My gun goes off.

"Q, make that 'one' to go!"

"I'll be there in 5! Try not to shoot anybody else." he quips, anxiously.

Then the waitress, dressed in her Little Red Riding Hood outfit no less, redirects her weapon towards me.

"You know, I _did_ have a few questions for him?" she informs me.

She's American. Maybe Boston, or somewhere close.

"Leave a message, maybe he'll get back to you." I reply, pointing my weapon right back at her. "Who are you, anyway?"

Then she slowly lifts off her hood and my world gets all that more smaller.

"Bourne." I rasp.

"Bourne?" asks Q.

"**Bourne!**" echoes Doliński.

Alexia bourne; CIA assassin, government wetworks specialist and all round serious piece of work. I should be surprised, but it actually all makes perfect sense. Kind of.

"Bond." she responds, "We really need to stop meeting like this."

"I don't know," I reply, "today wasn't so bad. As long as we don't have to start fighting again. _Do_ we need to start fighting again?"

"Depends." she replies. "I'm actually here for _him_."

She turns her weapon back to Doliński. I follow suit.

"M-me?" he mumbles, nervously, looking back at the two of us.

"Told you, if you tried to **screw me**, I'd be back!" she tells him, before pausing and glancing over at me, embarrassingly, "Ok, when I said; 'He tried to sc-"

"Hey, it's cool. I get it." I assure her. "This is the guy who ratted on Dorian Grey by giving him up to you. Then ratted _on_ you by warning _him_ you were coming. Which _he_ then thought was _me _and tried to kill me_. _Guess we _both_ owe him for that little gem."

"Just one of a list." she tells me.

"Great timing, by the way. How did you know when to knock?" I ask.

She then tells me, "I was listening in on the bug I planted on you, back when you bumped into me."

"What? Impossible!" screams Q. "I would have... I mean, I... ok, maybe with all the music... and sound interference..." his voice trails off into a murmur of embarrassment, as Bourne and I proceed with our verbal exchange.

"You... bugged me?" I say, turning my gun back to her.

"I did." she replies, turning her's back to me.

"That's the second time you've used me for bait?"

"What can I say, your good at it."

"Want to know what else I'm good at? Kicking your ass!"

"Ok, now you're deluded."

"Really? Hows the arm? I noticed you _flinched_ when I grabbed it earlier."

"OK, I _did_ oversell it a little. I was trying to signal you it was me, without blowing my cover. Guess I gave you too much credit."

"Ha! Yea, right. I _knew_ it was you! Was just playing along..."

"Naturally."

"Naturally. I suppose next you'll be telling me, you _let_ me win back in Puerto Rico?"

"Of course! How else was I gonna use you as bait there, as well? By the way, how's _**your**_ arm?"

"Never better."

"Now you're in denial."

"And you're so full of-"

"Ok ladies.." interrupts Doliński, "Maybe I should step out for a moment... let you two-"

"**SHUT UP!**" we both tell him, dismissively.

"We can go right now?" she offers.

"We could." I respond, itching to comply. "But one of us still has to make it through that door and back to the lift, not to mention the thirty or so armed men inbetween."

"Not to mention, what will probably be a hundred or so really pissed off party goers." she adds.

"Not to mention." I reply.

"So what did you have in mind?" she asks, finally lowering her weapon.

"Lipstick." I smile, crypticly, lowering mine.

To be continued...


	18. File 18: The Tattooist

**The Tattooist**

Red Iron Club, Moscow.

The three of us slowly make our way through the crowd across the dance floor and towards the main lift area. From afar, Doliński looks like the cat that got the cream; a face full of lipstick lines to match his own, shirt popped wide open and his necktie doubling as a nifty headband. Not to mention a hot blonde under one arm and equally hot brunette under the other.

Well, _almost_ equally.

But closer inspection would reveal he's anything but, as both our weapons edge themselves firmly into his sides, ready to go 'bang' should he grow a brain and try anything brave.

Perfection.

"Really think you can make it out of here alive?" he asks.

"Better hope so," I tell him. "Or you'll end up a size 24 waist, instead of your usual 42!"

"38, actually. Oh, and for the record, you didn't have to kill Verzhbitsky, he would have been more useful to you alive."

"Count your blessings we did, comrade ass-wipe, or else you'd be lying were he is right now and _he'd_ be the one doing the Hugh Hefner impersonation."

"Put a cork in it, grandpa." quips Bourne, agitatedly. "Plenty of time to talk later. Trust me."

"I'm just saying, you didn't have to kill him! And now we're approaching the lifts, I just think..."

"Hold on a sec... why are you so... Q?"

"Son of a... check his pockets!" urges Q, "I'm picking up a frequency!"

I do so and find his mobile had recently been dialled, I'm guessing at some point back in the room when it all went down. Which means we've been made by whoever was listening. Damn. It.

"As I was saying," he continues. "Did you _really_ think you cou-" but he never finishes. Nope, that'll be down to the sudden loss of front teeth as Bourne slams her weapon into his jaw.

Not a good move. Cause as Doliński goes down so too does our only means of cover, not to mention our one bargaining chip. Which, gaging by the several armed heavies making their way through the crowd towards us, would _really_ come in handy about now.

I fire three shots in the air and watch fear and panic do their thing.

Bullets fly, but Bourne and I make light work of the lot of them, with minimum casualties to the guests. Their large lumbering figures making them the easiest of targets. That and the added bonus they're the only ones _not_ dressed in day-glow threads.

The screaming guests scurry towards a nearby side door that leads to a fire escape out of the building, whilst Bourne and I search Dolinski. But he's nowhere to be found.

As we head towards the fire exit ourselves, a barrage of flames immediately block our path, as the caged dancing jesters slowly descend from their nest-like podiums to form a line in front of us.

"Seriously?" asks Bourne, disbelievingly, before slowing etching her way towards them. "Find Doliński, I got this."

Its roughly twelve to one. They should have brought more people.

Watching'Red Riding Hood' spin-kick the life out of a dozen or so fire-breathing court jesters, is a sight I shall take to my grave. Which incidentally almost happens, as I don't see the abnormally large tattooist, creep up and grab me from behind, before hurling me 20ft across the room. I hit the wall with such force my body almost explodes on impact. A spaced out couple below cushion my fall as gravity regains control, but they're so high they're not even fazed and merely burst out into hysterical laughter. Personally, I don't see the joke.

Back on the dance floor, Alexia's doing her darnedest to avoid the monstrous swings of the tattooed giant, whilst delivering a flurry of swift strikes to his jaw and chest. But she's already visibly tired. And I cant even stand, myself.

"Q... situation... not... looking great..."

"Well sorry to say, Holly, but it's looking a whole lot worse from out here. An entire army of bad guys have have turned up and are making their way up towards you! And they look _really_ pissed!"

Q. Bringer of good news.

"The police... we need the mother of all distractions... make the call..." I murmur to him, as much as my bruised ribs would allow me. "Then get me my damn exit strategy!"

"Ah, right... right... I'm on it!"

Time to get back to work. And not a moment too soon, Alexia's been hit with a backhand from the giant that nearly rips her head off. With more on the way, I need to end this.

"Ok, Holly, going by the architectural schematics, the wall to the right of the main lifts... appears to be a 'temporary' structure... recently made, Im guessing..."

"Q, It's a wall."

"Yes, technically, but possibly weak enough to break through as long as you can find something... well... heavy enough to slam through it?"

I glance over at the bald giant and crack a knowing smile to myself.

"Behind the wall, you should find some sort of passageway leading to the rear of the building." continues Q.

Bourne's down and the bruiser's moving in for the kill. Need to move now! I grab a nearby chair en route to the big guy. He's distracted, too busy taunting her, the sadistic ogre. I hurl myself into the air towards him and bring the chair down on him with everything I have.

Unfortunately, everything I have proves not nearly enough, as he simply turns slowly towards me and grins. But it _is_ enough to allow Bourne to get the upper hand... or rather 'foot', as she delivers a hard and fast kick that'd make Beckham proud, directly to his 'family jewels', with everything she's got.

It proves _more_ than enough, as the big lug silently drops to one knee.

"Bourne, we got company. Lots of company. ETA 30 seconds! Follow my lead!"

We drag him to his feet and head, full pelt, towards the designated wall space, driving him into and through it with an astounding 'crash', bringing the entire structure down to the ground.

Lift door opens, but we've already made our way halfway down the hidden pathway as a swarm of bullets rip into every surface around us.

"Wait, what about Doliński?" screams Bourne. Is she for real?

"Don't worry," I tell her. "He wont get far! Q?"

"Local police force is here, Holly! Damn, that was fast! Meet you at the back! And grab us a pretzel or two, will ya?"

The sound of gunfire is deafening, both in my ear piece and out in the streets at front where the the war with the law ensues, providing the perfect opportunity for us to slip away, which we do, out of a back window and down a creaky old fire escape. Which, unfortunately, only has part of its structure remaining. So we jump the rest of the distance down on to the van waiting directly below.

Bourne lands with the grace of a cat. Me, not so smoothly.

Before long we're in the back and Q has sped off, just as more police re-enforcements turn up.

"Q, Bourne. Bourne, Q"

"Charmed. Where's my pretzels, I'm starving."

"Well, you could always swallow teeth, Q?"

"Fair point. Where to?"

"Doliński. I slipped a tracer in his jacket, now track that rat down!"

To be continued...


	19. File 19: The Apartment

**FILE HB007/019 - The Apartment**

His name is Doliński. Michal Doliński. And he's what you'd call a 'middle man'. A 'connector' of criminal activity, basically a 'Join the dots' Kinda guy. But he's also so much more.

He has political ties, but dabbles in criminal activities. He has a family, but lives alone in an apartment block. He wears the face of an established American Intelligence Agent, but his blood and heart are pure Russian. And in this very moment he believes he is free, he's probably never been more trapped in his _entire life,_

He is, by all accounts, a '_walking contradiction_'. But he will not be for long.

'Walking', that is.

Having slipped out of the club, hidden among the screaming guests as they fled, he has made his way back to his decidedly low-key apartment block, roughly ten minutes drive away.

He strolls through the lobby area like he owns the place, possibly because he does, tipping his head at the guy behind the reception desk before entering the lobby lift.

8th floor, and he's stepped out into the hallway and made his way down to the last room on the left. His room. He swipes the key card against the receiver, it flashes green, the lock whirs open and he makes his way inside.

_'That's funny.' _he probably thinks to himself, as he realises the automatic light sensors haven't picked him up and activated as they ought to. He fumbles around in the dark for the light switch and eventually finds it. The lights flicker on, and the **three** of us are face to face to face, once more.

"Hey there!" I greet him, with a warm smile.

**H**e shrieks something in Russian and stumbles backwards, clearly alarmed by our intrusion.

"Well, you didn't think we'd forget about you, did you?" The question's an old line from a Wesley Snipes movie. Fitting in this situation.

A swift strike to the back of his head from Q's pistol, robs him of his opportunity to answer it.

By the time Bourne has woken him up, with a potent whiff of ammonium carbonate, he's already strapped firmly to a chair, ready for the main event to begin.

"Ergh!" he splutters, writhing around, attempting to pull himself free.

Meanwhile, I'm with Q in the bathroom, trying my best to mentally prep him for his big debut.

"Look, just pretend your not you. Put yourself in someone else's body. You can do this!" I tell him, griping his hands tightly. For added assurance of course.

Meanwhile,Doliński calls out from the main room. **["What do you... _want... with_ me?"] **

"Answers, dear boy." I tell him upon entering. "Oh, hope you don't mind us raiding your medicine cabinet for the odd pain killer?"

"Don't worry, we've left just enough for you!" adds Bourne. "Got a feeling you'll be _needing_ them."

Doliński gulps silently in response as his bottom lip quivers.

"You see, this is a game of two halves." I announce. "The first entails _me_ asking you a series of questions. The second... well... I hand over to my **friend** here-"

"**Associate**!" cuts in Bourne, breaking my stride.

"Right. What she said." I continue. "Anyway, I hand you over to her and then the fun _really_ begins."

"I have... nothing else... to tell... you..." he tells me, groggily.

"We will see." I reply, before turning towards the bathroom. "Q?"

"Bond?" shouts back Q absentmindedly before realising. "Oh, right! Of course. Yes, of course."

He shuffles into the room clutching a small black leather duffle bag before pulling out of it a handful of wires, electrodes and a little black box. Doliński watches on intently.

"Well if you are **good** cop..." he tells me, "and she is **bad** cop. Who is he, **Janitor**?" He laughs at his own joke, but Q remains eerily unfazed.

"Me? I am _neither_, comrade Do-lin-ski!" Don't over do it, Q.

He calmly shuffles over to him and begins attaching the electrical wires to either side of Doliński's head, connecting the _other_ ends to the little black box.

**["What is this? What are you doing?"] **asks Doliński.

"But I guess if you had to call me anything," continues Q, "it would be 'zee mad professor', yah?"

Bourne rolls her eyes, as Q gathers momentum.

"Exhibit A: your average medical apparatus, we commandeered from local hospital. Dont worry, we return it after. It is commonly used to monitor basic brainwave activity. But... with few... _choice_ modifications... alarming results can be achieved. Allow me demonstration."

Not sure where Q is going with the 'Transylvanian' accent, but he seems to have grabbed Doliński's attention.

He flicks a switch and a strange smell creeps into the room accompanied by a scream direct from Doliński's lungs that I'll never forget. Thankfully, our Russian host had checked himself into a room positioned in the half-empty side of the apartment block, for added privacy.

Still, at this rate, wont be long till _someone_ eventually hears and comes a calling. Need to wrap this up quick. 10 seconds later and Q flicks back the switch and Dolinski stops convulsing.

"That ooze you can almost sense running out of ears is not wax, comrade, it is brain matter." continues Q, rather too enthusiastically. "...melted by the low frequency microwave transmitter I have attached to your cranium. There is only so much zee mind can take before effects become permanent!"

Bourne's eyes continue to roll, Doliński's nearly go white.

"What... what do you... **want** with me...?" he gasps. My cue.

"My father, **James Bond, **yousaid he was recently here in Moscow... why? Where is he now? What is Quantum's end game? What are they planning?" Damn it, I'm trying not to get all emotional but failing miserably.

**["I... cannot speak of this. They will kill... me..."]** he swears.

I signal Q and he again flicks the switch, giving Doliński's brain another 10 second cook-down. Only just before he can de-activate, Bourne grabs the black box and extends the torture for _**extra**_ 10 seconds.

As Doliński's head sways from side to side, I glare at her intently, whispering; "Just so you and I are clear, this isn't a ready meal cooking lesson. Damage his brain too severely and he wont be able to give us the time of day!"

"You're _wasting_ time with this _soft_ approach. I'm on a tight schedule." she snaps back.

Just as I step towards her, to do what-I have no idea, there's a sudden knock at the door. I press my index finger to my lips then slowly turn to walk towards it, peering into the peep hole. Its a woman. Average height, average build, average age... just plain average, really.

'Right' I tell myself as I prep in a nearby mirror. '1, 2...' I open the door.

"Hello?" I ask, politely.

"Who are you?" she responds, alarmingly.

"Housekeeping?"

"Where's Michail?"

"Busy."

"Doing what?"

"Ignoring you? Look, what are you, his wife?"

"Yes, actually."

"Awkward!"

Wait, did I say that or did I think it?

"And you? Another one of his **hookers, **no doubt?" she asks.

Ouch! Did she really go there? It takes all of my willpower **not** to drive my fist through her 'average' skull. Not that it'd make much difference to her _face_.

"Call me an 'upgrade' from **_your_** sorry ass!" I snap at her, pushing the door closed. She jams her foot in it.

"Not so fast!" she tells me.

"Look lady-"

Just then, Doliński lets out a blood curdling cry, damn you Bourne, and for a moment my concentration is broken, almost along with my jaw, as the decidedly 'average' woman lets rip a front kick that hits me so hard I almost grow a couple of inches.

As I hit the floor, Q rushes out of the bathroom in a panic. "Holly!"

A vicious spin kick later and he's back inside the bathroom, crashing into the toilet seat. She then pulls out a Glock 18 caped with a silencer and heads into the main room. I scramble to my feet in pursuit.

"Bourne-Michail!" I shout, hoping she'll get it. She does and kicks the chair, sending it and Doliński, crashing to the floor, narrowly missing a handful of bullets.

I follow up with a swift kick to the woman's hand, putting everything into it. And hear a satisfactory 'crack' as it connects, sending her weapon spinning across the room.

But she responds with a kick of her own, slamming me in my chest, sending me cruising into a nearby sofa, relieved it wasn't another wall.

Finally Bourne completes the 'kicking trade-off' with a bevy of strikes that hardly leaves the assassin time to breath let alone defend against. She finishes off with a sweep to the woman's legs. She hits the floor, just as Q re-enters the room holding his gun.

The woman sweeps his leg, catching his gun before it hits the floor and aims it. I dive across the room to grab her other gun, as Bourne takes cover.

Two shots fire and the room goes silent.

To be continued...


	20. File 20: The Exit

**HB007/020: The Exit**

Doliński's apartment.

Two shots fired, one person dead. Doliński, thankfully. Or not.

The assassin's severely injured, Q's back in the bathroom throwing up everything but his vital organs and Bourne and I? Let's just say, still uneasy in each other's company.

"Had everything under control before you got all trigger happy with that black box." I yell at her.

"Look around you, Blondie. This your idea of containment?"

"You're missing the point-" I say.

"No, _you're_ missing the Point! Which is to say you don't have much of one. A focal point, that is. Instead of a 'sniper rifle', direct, separating your target from the moment, you're a machine gun, Bond. Sloppy. Obliterating everything in your path and just hoping you get the job done."

Her words... damn her words.

"You know, the previous M once called my father a '_Blunt instrument_'" I tell her. "The nurse at the boarding school used to say '_Every tool box needs a hammer_.' when I was struggling to come to terms with my rather unique nature. You are **neither** of those people..."

"_So what gives me the right_, is that it?" she asks.

"Well, your not exactly the most physiologically stable brunet on the block, are you? The chick bleeding out on the carpet, included. In fact, 'Emotionally flatlined' is a term that springs to mind." I lean in close to her for the punchline. "Short version, deal with you're own crap and let me deal with mine."

"Fine."

"Fine!"

"Fine. Let's finish this."

We walk over to the assassin's limp body. The bullet's lodged deep inside her chest. She's barely conscious and probably wont make it. But there's one last task she must now perform.

Bourne pushes her finger into the bullet hole, covering the assassins mouth with the other hand.

"Just a small ice breaker, so that you know we mean business." I announce, following her lead. "Where is the British spy being held?"

"Why... should I help... you...?" she splutters. "You will... kill me anyway..."

"You have my word that I won't." I tell her.

She stares deep into my eyes. A little too deep, if I'm to be honest. But eventually see's I'm telling the truth.

"...The man ...blue-eyed blonde." she smiles, oddly. "...They took him.. to a private airstrip... in Siberia... but you are too late. He's gone by now... The buyer paid a lot... of money to secure him...!"

"Who? Who's the buyer? Who is he being delivered to?" I ask.

Bourne pushes the finger in again, this time deeper. The assassin's body does the agony dance.

"I need a name!" I tell her. "My advice, think carefully before you give me one."

She glances over at Doliński's lifeless body, with a peculiar sense of... regret? The look catches Bourne's attention.

"Oh, I get it... this wasn't a hit, this was a '_booty call gone wrong_'!" she deduces. "He was knocking you on the side all this time... a temporary fill in for his wife. Plus, you get to keep an eye on him, too. We call that a 'win-win'!"

Bourne's words do little to dampen the assassin's bizarrely sombre mood.

"The people... who we all work for..." she explains. "...the things they would... **_do_** to him... If they even suspected he'd..."

"Worry about the things _we're_ gonna do to _you_ if you don't stop stalling for time!" bellows

Bourne.

Something in the assassin's eyes tells me this was more to her than an 'agreement of convenience'. I know 'fallen hard' when I see it.

"The name you seek... is... _Raymond Reddington_." she finally concedes. "But careful what you ask for...!"

"Thanks 'mom', we'll take that under advisement." responds Bourne, before holding her gun to the assassin's head.

"Wait!" she cries out. "The blonde girl... she said she she would not kill me..."

"That's right, she did." responds Bourne. "But I didn't."

Her body convulses for the last time before coming to a lifeless halt.

"Guessing _you_ didn't have any questions for her?" I ask.

"Doliński already _told_ me what I needed to know, back when you were busy having _'everything under control'_ at the door! Besides, you heard what she said... I did her a favour!"

She turns to exit the apartment. "Good luck in Alaska!"

"What are you talking about, what's in Alaska?" I ask.

"Raymond Reddington?" she replies, without breaking her stride.

"And how do you know that?" I call out after her.

"Cause that's where he was when he and I hooked up at the weekend, dummy. And not '_that_' way either. Be carefully with that one, Blondie."

Too many questions race through my head for me to even _acknowledge_ the sly remark. Like; who is this Reddington guy? What does he want with my father? Gut tells me dad's still alive, but for how long?

Meanwhile, Bourne leans into the bathroom before walking out to say her farewells to Q.

"Watch your back, cutie. You did good in there." she tells him before giving him a playful punch in the shoulder. I'd love to trade her one with the real thing.

With Bourne gone, Q and I gather our things and head out the front door. Ideally I'd call a clean-up crew in to 're-design' the scenery. Paint the illusion of a drug war gone wrong... domestic violence incident... whatever... but this one'll prove a little more... problematic... what with the identity of the face Doliński's now wearing.

"Call this one in, Q and ensure it's a private line. Inform M as to the 'sensitivity' of the matter, not to mention, significant time factor. Can't let the bad guys know we're urinating in the party punch."

"Sounding more and more like _her_." smiles Q. "It's a shame, was just getting used to her. And 'Cutie', well, haven't heard _that_ one in a long while. At least... not... directed at _me, _anyway. Speaking of M, encrypted message came through with a rendezvous time and place. Says he has an important update with regards to the-"

"What do you mean; _'getting used to her'_?" I ask. No real idea why.

"Wow! That _whole_ speech and the _one_ line you manage to pick up on is... _wait_... don't tell me... you're...?"

"What?" I ask.

"...feeling a little...?"

"Tired?"

"Yes... _No!_"

"Lets go." I tell him.

"Right. Sure. Okay then." he replies as we make our awkward exit.

Q; smartest guy in the room, but at times, the dumbest person.

To be continued...


	21. File 21: The List

**FILE HB007/021 The List**

Moscow Airport.

Outside, in the back of our temporary mobile base of operations, AKA a stolen van, M, Q and myself are midway through a quick debrief via a two-way video transmitter, AKA 'Skype'. And to be honest, the entire ordeal could be going a _lot_ smother.

"So, let me see if I have the correct facts," begins M, "because I would hate to think I was misinterpreting the current nature of your predicament... you shot and killed the only two known men capable of supplying you both with the current location of 'The Bookkeeper' **_before_** either of those men could give it to you?"

My silence puts Q in the awkward position of having to answer on our behalf.

"Well... _err_... M... sir, if you...that is... we kinda... I'm sorry, what was the question again?"

"Look M, what Q's trying to tell you... really trying... is that at some point the situation spiralled out of our control and the op went sideways, causing us to improvise. Bottom line."

"_Erm_... Disclaimer; when she says 'we' she actually means _'**she**'_._ I _was on the outside..."

"Yes you were weren't you, Q? A luxury some of us have..."

"Hey, I was doing my bit, Holly... laid out _all_ the groundwork... even took part in my... first... torture session... _excuse me!_"

Q makes a run for the exit. The sound of him throwing up outside's about as appealing as it was the last time.

"_He'll be okay. In-flight meal_-Look, there's another angle we can play this. Dolinski was being prepped to take the role of an official. They were probably waiting for the right time to make the switch... I'm guessing there are still more waiting to be drafted in. I'm telling you M, this guy was the same height, same weight... This kind of operation takes time, planning, preparation..."

"Your point, Bond?"

"They must be working from something... a list of some sort? ...Of candidates and those targeted to be doubled..."

"The list!" screams Q, finally making his entrance back into the van.

"You... _missed_ something, Q." I tell him.

"No, I heard it all..." he replies.

"No, I mean..." I indicate towards the corner of his mouth and he turns sheepishly to attend to it.

"_Still_ not hearing that point of yours, Holly." barks M.

"The Bucket List!" yells Q, spinning back around. "The one Holly retrieved from Grey's mansion... described as a huge sequence of random letters spread across a page..."

"What of it?" asks M, mildly intrigued.

"Well... what's the bet those letters _translate_ _into_ the list of names...? Names of _every_ individual those bastards have swapped already and possibly those who used to double them!"

"Sounds like a bunch of straws being grabbed to me," replies M, "Besides, that list is... currently... _unavailable_."

"But you could get access, right? I'd only need a copy to run it through shadownet and come up with a poss-"

"As I have said, that will prove to be... a tad difficult."

"Difficult? M, we carry out impossible missions on a day to day basis,'difficult' should be a walk in the park..."

"Look, the bloody list is not here anymore, it's missing." stutters M, rather embarrassingly.

"What do you mean, 'missing'?" I ask, capitalising on the temporary switch of roles.

"Stolen, borrowed, heck, I don't know, maybe it grew legs over night, got up and just legged it out of the building? The point is its not there anymore."

"That's not funny M..." I tell him.

"Well, _mildly_ funny..." comments Q. "The bit about it growing... legs... at least...?"

"Well gee, Thats kind of a big deal, M." I tell him. "Wasn't exactly easy _acquiring_ that intel in the _first_ place. I presume your launching an investigation into-"

"Into what? Happened some time today. No evidence of a break-in, security protocol tampering... the first question they'll be asking is what the blazes I was doing acquiring access to that material in the first place. Someone with clearance higher than my own helped those documents disappear."

"Well this confirms it!" screams Q excitedly. "We took out one of their doubles before they could activate him. They're accelerating their plans in response. That list has _got_ to be the key"

"Well then we just need to get it back, right. Any leads M?" I ask.

"One or two names I may be able to implicate, but the list itself is probably long gone by now and theres no way knowing where..."

"Not... entirely true." remarks Q. "I... I can... track it... possibly?"

"You can what? How?" I ask.

"Providing the list is still in the envelope you brought it in, of course, the tracker I put on-"

"You did what?' asks M.

"Don't worry, It's invisible to the naked eye. Wont even show up on any... scans... I'm... in trouble, aren't I?"

"Why, Q?" I ask.

"I don't know... memory muscle? Look, when my acess was suddenly revoked without cause or explanation, I got... you know... suspicious... I don't know why i did it, okay? Dock a years salary if you want! But I think on this occasion..."

"Do you have _any_ idea of the amount protocols you have broken with just that one act?" asks M.

"Well, err, I'd dare say fewer than the amount of lives at stake if we don't act quickly and bring these guys down... sir."

"Q's right, on this occasion at least. We were already in a blind spot regarding what their endgame was, we don't retrieve that list and quick, we might as well call it a day and wait for doomsday to kick in."

"Fine." agrees M, begrudgingly. "But when this is over..."

"Okay M, he gets the picture. And when that time comes he'll face whatever disciplinary action you can throw at-"

"Actually, I was referring to _you_, Bond. Your reckless desire to continuously play by _your own rules_ has brought into serious question the validity of your continual service here at MI6. A situation that will come under serious review and scrutiny when this mission is over."

"Sure. I... understand." I tell him, biting down on my inner lip.

I mean, damn it, really? What does a girl have to do these days to earn herself some long overdue kudos?

"I know!" yells Q, rising to his feet, tablet in hand.

"Err... you do?" I cagily ask. Surely he hasn't added 'mind reader' to his list of accolades.

"The location of the list?" he explains. "I know where it is."

"Oh. Right. The list. Where is it...?" I ask.

"I've triangulated its current signal, which... to be honest, is worryingly weak... and narrowed it... down... to... _Oh maaannn_..!"

And with that, Q collapses on the floor, taking a nearby keyboard and half a cup of Starbucks coffee with him.

"Bond, what's happened? Whats wrong with him?" asks M, urgently.

I'd love to tell him but the truth of the matter is I don't know. And by the time I actually figure it out... it's too late, as the entire area all around me starts to spin and my vision gets blurry, followed by the muscles in my legs turning into jelly.

A composite of Nitrous Oxide, Im guessing.

Im _also_ guessing, by the time I come to, I'll be strapped to yet _another_ chair, being questioned by yet another sinisterly nefarious character of questionable morality, trying desperately to milk me for information I don't possess or have access to.

Just another day in the office for me. Regardless of _what_ torture they can... Oh no... Q.

The world fades into darkness.

**To be continued...**


	22. File 22: The American

**FILE HB007/022 The American**

Smelling salts.

The chemical compound of which is ammonium carbonate and used as far back as the Roman times and used on everyone from athletes to pregnant women.

Today it's being used to snap **_my_** blonde ass back into consciousness by, I'm guessing, the very same people who knocked me out in the _first_ place. No idea how long Ive been out or where I... Damn it! Q. Almost forgot they have him too! If they've _hurt_ him in _any_ way, I'll... no... control, Holly. They're probably watching. Don't give away that he's a possible weakness or you can be damn sure they'll exploit it.

I'm peering around but there's no sign of Q anywhere. From the looks of it, I'm in a large empty warehouse, possibly an abandoned aeroplane hangar, handcuffed to... _surprise, surprise_... yet **_another_** chair. What is this, page one on every bad guy's handbook or something?

Windows all around are positioned high up on the wall, so light's minimal. There's snow building on the outside of the ledges. Am I still in Moscow? Just ahead of me, an empty chair and a table with a bottle of wine and two empty glasses sitting on top.

There doesn't appear to be anyone else here with me. Except, of course, the guy standing behind me who kindly provided the wake-up call. I can feel his breath faintly against the back of my neck.

But he's not the main event, he's just the warm-up act. Just a matter of time before... footsteps behind me. Slow, casually paced, like he's got nowhere to go. I can tell it's a 'he' from the rhythm of the walk.

"I remember the first time I found myself in handcuffs." booms the accompanying voice, American, possibly Boston. "Hurt like hell, they were so tight. I think her name was... Desdemona... she had a wandering left eye and certain penchant for the theatrical. I didn't mind so much at the time, until she'd told me she'd forgotten where she'd put the damn keys. Ah, memories."

The voice is raspy but quite distinct, like marbles being shuffled in a pouch made from soft velvet.

"Memories are an often overlooked element of our everyday psyche." continues the voice as it draws nearer. "At key moments in our life, they can be the one constant commodity that keeps us going when the chips are down. Pushing us forward. Surviving. The memory of a child... a loved one... a father? Question is, how will _you_ remember _this_ day?"

I remain silent. Need to see the face behind the voice. Look him dead in the eye before I make my play. Eventually he steps before me and casually takes the empty seat.

He's caucasian. And old. Not so much as in age, but rather... intelligence. And there's a strange way about him. Almost as if he's _convinced_ today is not his day to die.

"I don't know, perhaps it's the after effects of the gas." he suggests, in response to my silence. "Can play havoc with the senses. Sight, taste... touch? We'll let you recover for a while. Bring in the number two candidate."

My worst fears slowly materialise, as two nondescript heavies drag Q in by his arms. He's shaken up a little, but largely untouched. Guessing _that _willall be taking place before my very eyes.

"Now, I have no idea who you are, sir." he tells Q casually, "So killing you will give me no satisfaction whatsoever. On the other hand, and equally true, killing you will not permit me to feel **_remorse_** of any kind. So you see, either way I'm likely _not_to remember this actual event come tomorrow morning."

"Err... Holly?" Q calls out, turning to me. He's nervous but trying to mask it, which just makes it all the more obvious.

"'Holly! Well, gee, that's a _start_." says our captor, with a vague hint of satisfaction. "Lets see what else we can find down the rabbit hole, shall we?"

He takes out an automatic and nonchalantly places it on the table behind him before pouring himself a drink. All mind games of course. And from the way Q's glancing back at me helplessly its working. Dammit, if he wasn't here I would have slipped these cuffs long ago. But can't risk it. Need to find another way.

Meanwhile, our enigmatic host is pre-occupied with savouring the taste of what I'm guessing is the finest of fine wine, before calmly placing the glass back on to the table and taking up the gun once more.

"Now..." he announces, turning to face us. Just then...

"**Red. We got Keene on the line. Says it's urgent**!" booms a voice behind me. Another american. Wait a minute... 'Red'. Of course.

"Raymond." I finally say, breaking my silence. "Raymond **Reddington**."

He pauses for a moment. A hint of mock disappointment creeps across the corner of his mouth.

"Well gee, _that_ sucked the mystery out of everything!" he quips casually.

"Raymond Reddington. Attended the United States Naval Academy, graduating top of the class at the age of 24. Groomed for Admiral until inexplicably disappearing off of the map. Long since suspected of varying acts of treason, selling American intelligence to foreign buyers with enough zeros in their account to buy Apple three times over. Winning you a much coveted number 4 spot on The FBI's Ten Most Wanted list in the process. That is, until you recently turned yourself in. Which... doesn't explain why **_you're_** here?"

It's a power move on my part. Hopefully, it buys us a little time, winning me points in the 'respect' stakes.

"Nothing a laptop and a decent wi-fi connection couldn't provide, so you'll have to forgive me if I appear unimpressed." he retorts with a whim.

So, zero points for me, then.

"But what _has_ caught my attention of late is your _recent_ visit to the apartment of a one 'Michal Doliński' over in Moscow just **_before_** he became a member of the recently deceased. Doliński, political conniving rat that he was, served a unique and singular purpose for me, which leaves me with somewhat of a conundrum on my already reasonably full hands."

He pulls out a gloc and presses it against Q's head. Forget buying time, we're completely _out_ of it.

"Now, in the movies, the guy holding the gun would give a count of three before proposing to pull the trigger. As you can see, there are no camera's around so you can pretty much guess how this is gonna turn out."

Something in his eyes. There's not an ounce of bluff _in_ them. Say something, Holly. _Any_ damn thing!

"The Bucket List. We want it. And I've got a feeling you know where it is. Perhaps we can make a trade... of some kind?"

The room goes silent, and the man known as Raymond Reddington sits in silence pondering for just a moment before eventually standing up and silently exiting the room, leaving Q, myself and the guy whose still literally breathing down my neck

"Nerd, you ok?" I ask.

"I am. But my underwear isn't." he replies.

"It's... going to be okay." I tell him. "Just-"

"Really, Holly? In what world will it be ok? Cause it certainly isn't the one I'm currently occupying!"

"Okay, you **_need_** to calm down. Let me do the talking and stick to what _your_ good at, being a genius. You're still the smartest guy in the room!"

"Yeah? But only until _that bloke_ gets back." mumbles Q.

Then I hear the footsteps re-enter once more. Same rhythm but decidedly quicker paced. And heading directly towards... me. Guess this really **could** be it for the two of us. But Q doesn't need to know that.

"So nerd, did I ever tell you how big a fan I am of Chicken satay? First time I had it I was young and couldn't wrap my head around the concept of combining nuts with a meat-based dish... I mean, who does that, right?"

Footsteps are close now. Q's not even listening to me. Completely closed off. But I continue.

"What say when this is over we go find ourselves a local Chinese and-"

"I'm afraid that wont be happening." Raymond tells me, as he walks up behind my chair and leans in towards me. This is it, then. Not quite how I always pictured it would happen but...

"It seems you and I may have a mutual point of concern, after all." he tells me as he unlocks my handcuffs.

What have I got myself into now?

**To be continued...**

**A/N ...thanks guys for the great feedback and PMs, hope y'all continue to enjoy Holly's journey as much as I do writing it ;-)**


	23. File 23: The Auction

**FILE HB007/023: The Auction**

Somewhere in Alaska.

At least I'm guessing we are, purely down to the identity of our host. That and the freaking cold weather of course.

Speaking of 'Mr Enigmatic', he hasn't said a word to me since we left Q and the rest of his un-merry men back at the hanger. He's just sitting there, staring out of his passenger window. So much room in the back of this car I could hold a dance class.

Where we're going I'm not even sure. And for what purpose, I'm even less clear. In fact the only thing I am certain of is the bad feeling in my gut.

But _that_ could be just down to hunger.

"You going to tell me where we're going?" I finally ask.

"Thought youd never ask." he says with a smile. "There's an event called 'The Auction'. Takes place once a year. Location moves around from continent to continent. To call the guest list excruciatingly restrictive is the understatement of the decade. Your name has just been added to that list."

"Gee. Thanks. So what exactly _happens_ at this 'Auction' place, anyway?"

"People _bid_ for things, generally?" comes the sardonic reply, perfectly delivered. In fact If sarcasm could kill, I'd already be dead and this guy'd would have grabbed the number one spot on FBI's most wanted.

"I _know_ what happens at an auction, I meant what _type_ of things do they bid for?"

"Rare. The rarest of rare. Anything from high-end blackmarket tech to unique blood types to... more _exotic_ items. You'll be unofficially representing me, making a sole bid for Item 49. Timing is everything. Confirm the purchase then make your exit. Someone will be there to pick you up."

"Look, you want my help, you'll get it on my terms. You let my friend go, when he's clear-"

"To **_be_** clear, I neither require nor desire your assistance in this matter. You are nothing more than a convenience to me. Be grateful your not an **_in_**-conveniance. Besides, do this and I will give you what you've been looking for."

"Oh yea? And how can I trust you?"

"You have my word." he says, matter-of-factly.

"Oh. Well, why didn't you just say that in the first place?"

"In this envelope is all you'll need to know about your cover including the offshore account details." he hands it to me. "The paper is specially treated to disappear within 30 seconds of coming into contact with air. If what I've read in your file is true, that's 24 seconds more than you'll need to read it."

"My file?"

"Yes, Miss Bond." he pauses to soak up my reaction to him knowing who I am. "Don't be so surprised. I'm a big fan of your work. Ever since your recent excursion in Puerto Rico. Seem to have amassed quite the following. 'The mysterious blonde assassin'."

"I'm not an assassin."

"No. You're British Intelligence. If there is such a thing. And evidently way out of your depth."

"Thanks for the pep talk 'uncle Raymond', but I can handle myself."

He chuckles to himself. In not so much a condescending manor but almost... affectionate.

"What's the joke, pops?" I ask.

"You just... remind me of someone. It's almost eerie. Tell me, are you familiar with The Blacklist?"

"Depends... the selection of names of individuals ostracised from key social circles... or the secretly compiled list of criminals that exist and operate outside of the FBI's knowledge, half of which lead high profile public lives to conceal their criminal behaviour?"

"Names like Dorian Grey and Michael Dolinskì and a number of other candidates you'll no doubt soon have the pleasure of meeting."

"...Quantum...?"

So Q was half right. Which has just made that list twice as high a priority to retrieve.

"The Bucket List is an amalgamation of that and something called The White List. These are the names of every key operative of every government agency from deep cover black ops runners to high profile poster boys. Flint, Bristow, Ryan, Hunt, Mears, Smith... It's a somewhat extensive collection of the worlds finest."

My father. Is his name on that list? Was he a target? Is that why he went missing?

"So what's the point? Who created the list and why? And how did Grey get his... The Auction. He made a bid for it. Both sides would be vying for that kind of information. And I had it in my possession."

"Locate the 'who' and the 'why' and 'what' will become immediately apparent. Just do me the courtesy of passing on that information when you do."

Is there anything this guy _doesn't_ know? But the more he tells me, the less I trust him.

"Ok, so I still don't understand why me?" I tell him.

"I told you, your a convenience. Albeit a timely one. Now I'm afraid this is my stop. Dembe, here, will ensure you arrive at your destination safely and timely."

The car pulls over at the edge of an apparently abandoned town and the man they call 'Red' climbs out. But not before leaving me a kind parting thought.

"Now Miss Bond, because I don't have to tell you that if there is any deviation from the proposed plan, I will mail a different part of your colleague to your home address on your birthday _without fail_ for the next 25 years, I won't. I will merely wish you a good evening."

And with that he tips he's hat and closes the car door and the driver and I move onwards to our destination. And uncertainty.

With Q's life at stake, I cant even _entertain_ the idea of sidestepping this and setting my own plan in motion. And my fathers name didn't even enter conversation. So was he even ever here?

Damn it, I hate being the one in the dark.

**To be continued... **


	24. File 24: The Reunion

**FILE HB007/024: ****The Reunion**

Ive got a bad feeling. Really bad.

Like on a scale of one to ten, the scale would have probably broken by now.

First off, Red's designated driver, Dembe, lets me out in the middle of the road in the middle of nowhere only for another car to moments later pull up beside me as a couple of goons step out and slap a hood over my pretty little face and drive me... well... wherever 'here' is.

Now I'm sitting in a small private booth. One of twelve embedded within the metallic walls of a large circular-shaped room. Below, a narrow platform leads out from a dark doorway and onto a small circular centre stage in the middle of the room.

The identity of the 'buyers' in the other booths remain something of a mystery, obstructed by mirrored glass we're each having to stare down from. Below each room's window is positioned a large digital counter. Guessing they'll display each of the bids live as they're being made.

Another circumstance and I would have found the whole set-up strangely... intriguing.

But a sly glance over my shoulder at the armed suit standing obtrusively by the rooms exit reminds me this is strictly a business affair. That and the thought that MI6's premier quartermaster sitting somewhere miles away scared out of his wits at the thought of losing his life if I'm unsuccessful in completing my given task.

It sucks not being in control or having an exit strategy.

"Welcome, welcome, welcome to this years annual Auction!"

Okay, so far, so Hunger Games.

The voice belongs to a tall pastel-grey suited man, with a beard to match. He's late 50's and carries the type of grin that'd have The Joker turning his head with envy.

"Todays items promise to be the most historically in-demand objects ever to grace our most prestigious event. So without further adieu I shall begin with the evenings first bid, Item numero uno. That's 'number one' in layman's terms. For those who... you know... don't... err..."

I'm in for a very long night.

Just then another man, dressed like a high-end butler, wheels a silver tray out to the platform before majestically removing a concealing white sheet to reveal what appears to be... an ordinary semi-automatic weapon. But upon closer inspection is revealed to be anything but.

"Honourable guests I present to you; The Desert Sidewinder X11. Titanium enforced carbon-fibre chassis, unobtainium-fitted hand grip, weighs less than 15.5 oz. and comes with a trigger pull of 5.5 to 7.7 pounds. A true item of ballistic beauty no wetwork enthusiast should _ever_ be without. Bidding starts at a meagre €10 million. Do I see 11?"

And so the light show begins and it suddenly dawns on me those mystery bidders may not all be criminals. In fact they may not be criminals out there at all. There's more than a fare share of unsanctioned black ops programmes running the world over. So where else would they acquire their firepower if not at this type of event?

As the evening drags steadily along I bare witness to all manor of distinguished items, NASA level software, blueprints for next-gen satellite surveillance, hacked corporate emails detailing mega-corporation secrets, conceptional germ warfare anti-agents, something called a 'Black Box', even a rare Action Comics issue one reprint.

Eventually the time comes for the appearance of the much anticipated; Item 49. at least by me anyway. Its arrival heralded by the appearance of a flat shiny silver briefcase brought out by the butler dude.

"As we draw near to our close, this, my distinguished and most fortunate guests, is a rather... _unique_ and unparalleled object of desire. So freshly released onto the market, you can almost smell the paint still drying."

This is it. The reason why I'm here. Cant help but feel a little anxious. Never been involved in a bidding war before. Closest I came was calling dibs on the corner table of the cafeteria back at the orphanage. Even then I had to clash claws with the _then_ queen bee of the place. Wonder what became of ole Niki?

And that is... _err_... all the information I seem to have, I'm afraid. Bidding starts at, well, wherever it starts at really."

What? He's not even going to **_open_** the damn thing? I see a handful of numbers light up from each of the rooms. But nothing even _close_ to what Redington has commissioned me to bid with. Which makes me all the more nervous about what is actually inside the thing.

"Going once... going twice..."

I punch in the figure advised by Redington's handy guide back in the car and watch the priceless reaction on the ring master's scraggy face.

"My... my... it would seem our 'silent bidder' has found a voice at last! Sold, to Room zero zero seven."

A single clap of his hands and the deal is final and the butler dude whisks the briefcase away to bring before me. I guess.

I hastily enter the given account details and sit back and wait for my prize to arrive and Q's resulting freedom.

"And so we come to our final bid for the evening and, subsequently, this year. But as sad as that thought is, I'd be remiss not to inform you we have most **_certainly_** saved the very best for the very last."

There's a knock at the door and the armed suit opens it and in walks some short fat dude wearing shades and carrying my briefcase. It's a lot thiner close up than it originally seemed, with no visible locks of any kind. Just what _appears_ to be a handprint scanner positioned on the upper side.

"As you can see, this is our only 'live' item for the evening, but **what** an item!"

The announcers voice, peculiarly giddy with excitement. Somethings off.

"This hooded mystery has been the bane of many an organisation as Im sure you will each attest. He has single handedly put an end to more underground criminal operations than I've had lukewarm diners. And if you knew anything of my wife's cooking you'd know that's a _hell_ of a feat!"

There goes that feeling again...

"In fact, in some circles he's secretly know affectionally as 'The Party Crasher' as he always manages to turn up to every event uninvited!" he laughs.

That man, standing beside him in handcuffs, wearing the hood... roughly 1.78m in height, 78kg in weight...

"But to the ordinary world he goes by the name..."

No way... no frigging way!

"Of commander James Bond of the British Secret intelligence Service!"

He lifts off the hood and my world comes crashing down around me.

To be continued...


	25. File 25: The Wanted

**FILE HB007/025: The Wanted.**

The name's Bond, Holly Bond.

My mother, rumour has it, named me Holly because I was born on Christmas Eve. A seasonal gift from my father to her. A gift he's no doubt given to _many_ women. Naturally, I've no idea who my mother actually is so i can't verify that rumour either way. What, with me being abandoned at an orphanage in Baltimore at the tender age of 3.

Not too sure wether sister Adelaide would have approved of the path I have since taken.

But the one person who surprisingly _**never**_ approved was my father. 'Surprising' because it is a path well trodden by him over the course of a very long and emotionally bereft existence, the life of a double O agent. And a path that has led us both... to this very moment.

His face looks like it's seen better days, no doubt the result of hours, maybe days, of gruelling relentless torture. But whatever it was they tried to get out of him, I'd bet a vintage Aston Martin they sure as heck didn't get it.

Need to act fast, though. Ive got until the bidding stops. After that I risk losing him again, possibly forever.

First on the agenda, the 118kg shadow currently blocking the doorway behind me. Should make a sizeable enough object with which to break the two-way mirror, gaining me access to the stage below.

I lean over and begin coffin like an eight year old taking her first drag on a cigaret behind the bicycle shed in the yard. Hey, don't judge, I was at an impressionable age, okay?

He leans over me and gently presses his hand on my shoulder, right before I release my head, like a catapult, directly into his nose. The sickening 'crack' signals the impact, just as I spin around, sliding his gun out from its holster to put 'two' rounds into his chest.

I fire a third shot at the glass, weakening it considerably, just enough for it to completely give away as I hurl the big dumb brute through it, his body crashing with a 'thud' as it hits the floor below.

"Bond!" I scream, signalling for my father to climb up, as the announcer-guy, panic-striken, makes a sharp exit. But he just stares at me in disbelief before switching his expression to downright pissed off, and suddenly this doesn't seem like such a great idea after all.

Deciding to jump down, I hurl myself through whats left of the two-way mirror, blasting two military goons running out to greet me, before my feet even hit the ground. Or rather, the dumb brute's body I'm using to break my fall.

A deafening siren dominates the air as an emergency announcement comes through the intercom speakers;

_"The Housekeeper requests that all guests remain in their securely safe bidding booths, until this immediate matter has been dealt with sufficiently by our security detail. Thank you."_

Yea, right. You wish.

My father, meanwhile, is still standing there glaring at me. Its hard to get a read on exactly what he's thinking but I can tell they're not happy thoughts.

Suddenly he raises his cuffed hands high up in the air, I shoot the chains apart and he grabs a gas grenade from one of the military corpses and tosses it into the doorway. He then positions himself to the left of it as the smoke begins to spread, while I take cover beneath the catwalk.

Seconds later, another shooter comes running out guns blazing. Dad grabs the rifle from him, hurling him forward with his momentum so he stumbles awkwardly towards me. I sidestep, before pirouetting in mid-air, extending my left leg so it connects with his jaw with such force it sends his body into a 360 spin before slamming hard into the ground.

Its a sweet move, but alas, a wasted one. Barely registering on my father's 'Impress'o'meter'. Damn.

"Move it!" he grunts, as he heads into the doorway, shooting out the security cameras as he goes. I grab the briefcase and follow closely behind.

The hallway's tense, dark and impossibly narrow, with the gas making it just as difficult to see, let alone breathe. My hearts pounding so fast, I don't know wether its adrenalin or fear. Or both. Or neither.

Either way we're funnelled in, sitting ducks if we don't make it out before the reinforcements arrive. I **_really_** should have thought this one through.

"Really didn't think this one through did you, Holly?" he comments ironically, in typically sardonic fashion.

"I... prefer to think on my feet, if you must know." comes my rather unconvincing reply.

Another bad guy appears up ahead before disappearing just as quickly in a flash of gun muzzle fire, and we finally make it out of the halkway, now faced with a solid stone wall, part of yet _another_ narrow hall stretching far to the left and to the right.

"Damn it, which way?" I ask, more rhetorically than anything else.

"Left, second right, then we follow it down to the end. There's a window, leads out onto a dumpster and a carpark. Its a high fall and it'll hurt like crap, but it's survivable." he replies. "Keep moving!"

How could he possibly...?

"Its called 'prep-work', Holly. Don't look so impressed, you should try it sometime. Now get down!" I duck my head and two more bad guys behind me bite the bullet, quite literally. Dad snatches a keycard from one of their belts and we keep moving.

"Now are you gonna tell me what the bloody heck you're doing here, or do I need to guess?" he asks.

Yep, I'm in trouble.

"Look, dad, Its kinda a long story," I begin. "I really don't have the t-"

"Oh, you **_do_**, young lady, and you bloody well **_will! _**Did M sanction this?"

"Well, I'd love to say it **_was_** a rescue mission, but seeing as nobody _including_ me _knew_ where you bloody were _or_ what you were-"

"The **_short_** version, Holly! And preferably _without_ the attitude!"

"Quantum." I concede, with a mumble.

"Quantum? Doesn't exist." he retorts, emptying half a clip into a couple more 'unfortunates'.

"Ah, well this is where your wrong, father! They are very _much_ alive! And worse, operating from within MI6 and who knows _what_ other organisations out there. Using some next-gen Nasa-level tech that allows them to-"

"Quantum is a cover. The organisation's defunct!" he informs me, leaving just enough of a pause for it to sink in before continuing. "But the threat's real. Planning a mass takeover. And whoever's behind it is using Quantum as a smokescreen to mask their organisations identity. Thats who Im after, why Ive gone off grid, off record..."

"'Off the rails'...according to some gossips... _d'ya mind leaning back a Little?_" He does so and I pull the trigger and another bad guy wishes he never got outta bed that morning. We move on.

"Theres a lot more at stake than my reputation, Holly. I'm not **_that_** narcissistic... wait, whats in the _briefcase?"_

"What? Ah... right... the briefcase. Thats why **_I'm_** here. It's... life insurance."

"Who's?" he asks.

"Err... Q? Now wait, before you go-"

"Damn it, Holly! Could you _possibly_ screw up anymore than you already have?"

"Well, gee dad, I'm sure if I **_really_** put my mind to it, I could at least give it a damn good try!"

"No! You do not get to smart-mouth your way out of this! The deal was that you'd remain low-profile, not put other peoples lives at risk, including your own, engaging with every-"

"Hey, lets not forget, I was looking out for myself just fine, _way_ before you decided to _reemerge_ into my life like a conscious-stricken 'Father of the Year' nominee!"

"A. I didn't know you even **existed!** And B. Looking out for yourself? Your forgetting I had to pull you out of a-"

"**We got company!**" I yell, rather timely, as _another_ wave of bad guys close in on our location. With the smoke begining to clear, we're forced to back up towards a security door made from bulletproof glass. At least we **_hope_** it is.

Bond senior swipes the keycard while I provide cover fire and we dart through, destroying the lock mechanism before making our way to the designated exit.

"Look, having Q tag along wasn't my idea. M's the one who thought it'd be safer for him to-

"Wait a minute... M put Q up for field assignment? What was the mission?"

"Nothing extreme, low level groundwork gathering intel from some Russian 'middle man' by the name of Dollinski. Who, I'll add, had already undergone said hi-tech surgery to look like-"

"...Director or International Affairs, Richard Harper. I heard it mentioned on a radio while I was being transported here. Said he was found dead in an apartment in Moscow, along with the body of a woman he was presumed to be having an affair with. I knew Richard, he was obsessed with his wife and three children. No way he would-"

"Wait, what? But it _wasn't_ him. Not the _real_ him... I told M... I specifically told-"

"Holly, has M acted... strangely... out of the usual lately?" he asks.

"No stranger than normal. Wait, your trying to tell me... he's a... double?" I ask, really not wanting to hear the answer.

"I'm telling you, both your faces are likely plastered on every wanted list of every government agency in the world about now. Think about it, Q's one character who's next to impossible to imitate and way too clever to fool. Easier to send him off packing and hope a stray bullet does the trick than try to replace him. Cant say theres too many people his age in the world sharing his IQ."

Thats when it hits me. "It was planed all along. This way... they deal with two problems... in one go."

And there it is. Ive been duped, again. I hate being duped. And yet it seems these days **_everyone's_** doing it to me. First Bourne, twice, and now some ass-wipe posing as M. Ok, so thats _two_ people. But still two people _too many_.

It's official; Next bad guy that steps on my toes gets the lions share of a whup ass!

"Chances are they've already extracted the real Harper, and locked him up along with the real M and anyone else." he continues. "They'll keep them alive for the time being, extracting information... until theres no further use for them. That doesn't give me much time."

"'Us'... you mean?"

"The hell I do! You've done more than enough. And no, that _wasn't_ compliment. Theres a safehouse in Istanbul, only two other people know of its existence. Take Q and... wait, exactly **_who_** is holding him?"

"Ah... right... yeah... Raymond... Redington... I know, I know, I screwed up! I get it. Just tell me how to fix it!"

"He's a very dangerous man. Don't trust him. Only make the exchange once you've secured Q's safety. Then pray whatever is inside that doesn't bring the end of the world!"

"Right. Thanks. Still waiting to hear how I can 'fix this'."

"Reddington gave me a name, 'Blofield'. Along with the location of the man who can help me find him. Stopping these guys is something of a mutual interest to him. That puts him on our side... for now."

"Another name crossed off his infamous Blacklist." I comment.

"Get Q, head to the safe house and stay put. Ill come when this is all sorted. Now go!" he orders me, opening the window for me to climb out.

"What about you? You... you need to escape, I-I _rescued_ you...!"

"Hardly. The man I'm after is in one of those bidding booths. All you did was rescue _him_ from **_me_! **Now get going!"

"At least wish me luck...?" I ask, taking a deep breath with one leg hanging out of the window, looking way down at the ground below.

"You're a 'Bond', Holly." he replies, with half a smile. "You don't _need_ luck!"

And with that he gently nudges me out and I fall, bouncing off the dumpster bellow and onto the tarmac.

One thing's for sure, he was right. It _does_ hurt like crap!

**To be continued... **


	26. File 26: The Boot

FILE:HB007/026 The Boot

I _should_ be worried about him.

Heading back in there with no back-up, building full of bad guys, outmanned, outgunned... I **_really_** should be worried about him. But, strangely, I'm not.

He is after all; James Bond. License to kick ass, take names and add the preverbal notch to his Tom Ford designer belt. In fact, if I was a _fraction_ of the agent he is, _I'd_ have had this entire assignment wrapped up by now, myself.

But I'm not.

So I haven't.

Instead, I'm on my way to rescue one of MI6's highest valued assets; Q. I can only hope and pray he's still alive. If _anything_ were to happen to him on my watch I'd... Wait a minute, a safe house in Istanbul? I that because he fears for my safety? Or does he simply view me as too incompetent an agent? More susceptible to 'screwing up' than getting the job done?

Going by the _balls-up of a_ _rescue_ I just carried out, he _may_ just have a point.

Ah yes, the kind of comforting thoughts that swirl about my head as I creep around the maze-like carpark of a building that's currently housing some of presumably, the worlds most influential and clandestine, criminal power-players operating today. And armed with an empty-chambered gun and this rather sleek-looking silver briefcase. Wonder what's inside.

Damn it, just realised I don't even know where Q's being held! Where am I even going? Original plan was to meet Dembe at the rendezvous point he first dropped me off at. Obviously _thats_ not happening now.

Really, **_really_** should have thought this through, Holly.

It's snowing, hard. Combination of that and the pitch-black night sky is making it virtually impossible to s- **_behind me! _**Two guys turn a corner, both armed.

I spin around and the first guy gets the briefcase to the side of the jaw. Doesn't put him down, but throws his aim off, _just_ enough to allow me to retain my good looks.

I side step, using my free hand to grab the second guy's wrist before twisting it backwards vigorously. Even over the brisk sound of the night's wind I hear the bone 'snap'. He drops the weapon and I drive my left leg into the side of his knee. More breakage ensues. He screams as I follow up with a swift kick to his friend's groin, temporarily robbing him of everything that made him a man. Two last swings of the steel briefcase and their both out cold. On the freezing cold floor, no less. Oh, the irony.

Suddenly, a car screeches to a halt behind me. I grab one of the weapons off the ground before spining around to see...

"Dembe."

"Good evening, Miss Bond."

He's aiming a gun directly at me, as he slowly gets out of the car, never breaking eye contact. But Q's nowhere to be seen and I'm getting that 'bad feeling' again.

"Mr Redington sends his apologies, Miss Bond." he tells me.

"Tell him he can _shove_ his damn apologies! Where's Q?" I ask.

"Hand over the briefcase." he demands.

"Q first." I say.

"This is not a game you want to play, Miss Bond. You've a great deal more to lose than he does."

"Oh, I don't know... I'm betting whatever's _inside_ this is briefcase is fairly important to him."

"More important than the life of your friend?"

Kinda has a point. Damn. But then what do I do? This briefcase is the only leverage I have. If I hand it over and they screw me, Q's dead. I _**don't**_ hand it over and play 'chicken' and we're **_both_** probably dead.

What would dad do? Shoot the bloody lot and cut his losses. No, he told me to trust Redington. Kind of. Well, his _word_ anyway.

"Just... tell me where he is, you can _have_ the damn case." I tell him.

He fires his gun in response. And a guy creeping up behind me gets the bullet. Eyes and ears open, Holly.

"Hope that goes some way to convincing you of our intentions. Now, I'm afraid I really _**must**_ insist!"

I slowly place the briefcase on the snowy floor and back away. He picks it up, never taking his eyes off of me, and backs away... past the car... towards... an open space.

"Aren't you... forgetting your ride?" I ask.

"It's not mine." he tells me, as a rope ladder drops down seemingly from nowhere. "It's yours. Take the south-east road about a mile and a half out. You'll see him there!"

And with that he grabs the ladder and disappears up into the sky via the handy helicopter now hovering over his head, leaving me to dive into my awaiting chariot with the engine still running. And not a moment too soon, as another handful of 'locals' pour out into the parking lot to pick up where the others left off. My ass only saved again by Dembe, handily providing ariel cover-fire.

I slam my foot down and make with my hasty exit, haunted by the reminder that my father, as good as he is at doing what he does, is on his own. But then so is Q.

I take the road as instructed. It's a long dark path, that almost echoes my life, but still no sign of Q. In fact, no sign of anything! Just this damn open road, a huge field either side with a forest in the horizon and-an **_increasingly_** annoying sound... coming from... the boot?

I slam the brakes and get out, slowly making my way to the back of the car. Weapon poised, I reach down and cautiously open the boot, only to see...

"...Q?"

He's still. Dead still, with no sign of movement. I slowly lean in to check his pulse. Suddenly he lunges towards me, swinging his arms, that happen to be bound firmly together.

"Q, it's me! It's Holly!"

He looks terrified, his eyes, almost bloodshot-red. He's muffling something, but the duct-tape strapped to his mouth's kinda making it difficult to understand. so I anxiously rip it off.

"OW! I said; **_what took you so bloody long?_**" he repeats.

I remove the rope binding his hands and feet and hug him like my life depended on it.

Purely because I'm glad he's alive.

He _is_ a valid asset, after all.

"_Err_... _Holly_. _Kinda finding it a little... hard to breath... here_..." he tells me.

I let him go. But not before punching him lightly in the arm. Well, _fairly_ lightly.

"Ouch!" he yells. "Glad to see you too!"

"I thought you were dead!" I yell.

"Me? Ha! I **_laugh_** at the sight of death! And... well, maybe _pee_ myself a little... but _mostly_ **laugh**!"

"This is **_not_** a laughing matter, Q. Anything but. We are royally and officially screwed! Turns out M.. or rather, the guy we _**thought**_ was M, is actually a flipping d-"

"-Double, yes I know. _Redington_ kindly informed me. Weird one, that guy. He even went as far as to show me the latest newsflash currently sweeping the net, _right before he gassed me of course_, namely the one where you and I are wanted for the death of- wait, how did **_you_** know?"

"My... _father_ told me."

"What, like in a... **_vision _**or something?"

"No, you idiot, he was at the _auction_."

"Right! The auction! ...**_What_** auction?"

"The auction I had to attend to save _your_ pain-in-the-ass... ass! Turned out **_he_** was one of the 'rare items' up for a bid. So I... rescued him. Only to discover he didn't really **_need_** rescuing, because being captured was all part of his plan... looking for some guy named Blofield? Could turn out to be the real threat behind-"

"-Don't you ever come up for air?"

"Only when I'm drowning. Hey, d'ya think Redington knew? About my dad? He did say I'd find what I was looking for there. And he was auctioned _directly_ after the... whatever it was inside the briefcase..."

"What briefcase?" he asks.

"The one I had to-_are you even listening to me?"_

"I'm sorry, did you say something? I'm kidding. Okay, so where's commander Bond now? Is he meeting us here? At least with him around we're guaranteed to surv-"

"He's still back there. He gave me coordinates of a secure safe house in Istanbul. We are to immediately go to-"

"I'm sorry, did you say he was still... **_back there?_** You left a field agent-_your father no less_-alone, odds stacked heavily against him... isn't there some sort of... 'agent code' that prevents you lot from turning your ba-"

"I made a call, nerd, it was you or him. Naturally, with _him_ being the one '**_marginally'_** more adept at handling himself, of the two of you, I chose you! So forgive me if it was the wrong flipping move!"

There's a silence. Uncomfortable, but I don't give a damn.

"You're forgiven." he concedes, finally. "Now what? We go back and rescue him?"

"And put your life back in danger? Now way. Now, we..."

That's when I see it. In the distance, over his shoulder. "I think I have an idea."

I head over to the large stretch of grass situated at the cusp of the nearby forest. A rather large object covered by an even larger plastic sheet. I grab a corner and lift it off entirely, revealing...

"Wow. A real life helicopter? Don't suppose you know how to fly it?" asks Q.

I sigh heavily, jump in and start it up. Maybe Redington **_can_** be trusted after all. Presuming of course it was _he_ who left it here for us to find, at the exact spot Q awoke from whatever sedative they gave him. That takes **_some_** calculation.

"Alrighty, so what's the plan when we get there, H?" he asks.

"We wait." I reply. "Sit back and let my father do what he does best!"

To be continued...


	27. File 27: The Intruder

**FILE HB007/027: The Intruder**

Istanbul, Turkey.

Once the largest city in the world, instrumental in the advancement of Christianity during the Roman times, before going on to be conquered in 1453 by the Ottoman Empire. Today it's still considered to be one of the most densely populated cities on the planet, perfect foil for achieving maximum obscurity, which is exactly what Q and I are here to do.

The drive to the safe house location is long and tedious, silently awkward even... but the heat... oh, the heat. Not exactly sweltering, but a welcome departure from the bleeding cold I've had to become _accustomed_ to of late.

Actually, one of **_many_** things I've had to become accustomed to. Chief of which is being wanted for a murder that a) I didn't really commit, because b) it didn't really happen. At least not the way they said it did.

Everything in me screams; _'Fight, Holly! Clear your name and prove your innocence by unmasking the identity of the true perpetrators at work'_.

But good ole 'Pops', the man who'd be runner-up in a _'Father of the year'_ competition if he was the only one entering, specifically told me to stand down and stay put. Least I inadvertently turn a bad situation worse.

But how much worse could it get?

And he cant surely be in every place at once. If this thing is as big as he's implying, he wont be able to take these guys on solo. He needs me. He may not know it yet, but he needs me. Yep, he needs me to... well... '_stand down and stay put'_. I guess.

Damn.

"Okay, Holly, are you gonna, like, say... something?" enquires Q. "The silence is a little _**too**_ loud for my liking. I mean, I get that your probably used to it... running around on solo missions with nothing but your shadow for company and a tech genius yapping in an earpiece, but..."

"What do you want to talk about?" I sigh heavily, as I switch gears.

"I don't know... Halo vs Call of Duty? Now, _**there's**_ a debate! Personally, I'm more a 'Master Chief' enthusiast myself, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate the-"

"Really, Q? Like, really?"

"Well, no. I mean, yes, there's nothing _quite_ like flooring a Warthog through a sea of 'Elite' vermin, but thats _not_ what I want to discuss. Unless... you... **_want_** to discuss flooring a Warthog through a..."

"Time is precious, Q, so I'd appreciate you _not _wasting_ mine!_"

"Right, sure...! Okay, well why not tell me... about your _childhood! _Growing up in a... 'boarding school' was it? Must have been... well... tuff?"

"Okay, this... this isn't working..." I tell him.

"Its not? Wait, what's not working?"

"You want to talk, nerd, fine. Start with telling me how much longer until we get to the bloody site?"

"Okay then... should be there in about 5? Hey, I was wondering... d'ya think they're still alive? All those people... agents they've... doubled?"

"The important ones. Maybe. They'll milk them for information for as long as they can supply it, then... dispose of them. I guess."

"Then M's still alive, right Holly? There's still time for us to rescue him?"

"We'd have to know where he **_was_** first, and there's no way of us tracking his whereabouts. Oh, and not to mention we're more than a little out-maned? Best we let 'Bond senior' handle it, like he wanted. Like the old pro he is. He knows where we'll be if he needs us."

"Right. And he's not 'out-maned' at all, is he Holly? Your father against the entire criminal underworld?"

"'Just another day in the office' for him, right?" I quip.

I probably come across bitter, but I know he's only looking out for me. Safest place for me, for us even, is in a 'safe house'. And speaking of...

"Looks like we're here!" I announce, pulling up to a shambles of a shack, that looks like it was designed and put together by a team of blind old age pensioners.

It's a one-level maisonette with all the windows boarded up. Mounds of junk are liberally sprinkled around the front garden

"Not exactly The Emirates Palace..." I note.

"The _Emirates Palace _ain't exactly The Emirates Palace!" replies Q looking around. "I dunno, H, maybe these co-ordinates your father gave us are wrong?"

"Well you're the one with the tablet, nerd, maybe your _reading_ it wrong?"

"Impossible! Or at the very least, 'improbable'. Although I'll happily settle for 'unlikely'."

We enter through the front door, which barely manages to stay on its hinge and snoop around. The interior's old fashioned mahogany coated in a decades worth of dust and cobwebs, and wouldn't look out of place in one of those 'house in the middle of a forest' horror flicks.

As the stifling stench of mould continues to stain the insides of our nostrils, we unanimously conclude that to continue to remain in this 'house' would be anything **_but_** 'safe', and leave.

That's when I notice it.

'It' being an old grandfather clock standing beside a small dowdy-papered wall, and leaning at an obscure angle like the Tower of Pisa.

Something about it is off, visually at odds with the remaining dour decor around the room. Something about it's bronze brushed mettle hand-less face that doesn't add up. Add up. The numbers. Perhaps...

Departmentalisation

_tr.v._ **de·part·men·tal·ized**, **de·part·men·tal·iz·ing**, **de·part·men·tal·iz·es**

_To organize into departments._

MI6 training teaches us to utilise this memory method, to have it consistently operating at the back of our minds, even when we're unaware. Forever gathering data, peculiar shards of information that, for whatever reason, seem to stand out from the seemingly mundanity we experience daily.

Like a seemingly random series of numbers, initially believed to be a _phone _number handed to me back at the Red Iron Club in Moscow. Something about it didn't add up then. Could _this_ possibly be why?

I cautiously press the numbers on the clock's face following the 'phone number's' sequence, as a sceptical Q looks on, scratching his head and wait, anxiously.

5 seconds, nothing happens. 7 seconds, there's a whirring sound. 10 seconds, the wall beside the grandfather clock rolls to one side, as bright lights revealing a hidden set of stairs leading down begin to flicker on.

"Okay, I'm not even going to ask." comments Q, as we make our way slowly down the steps.

Eventually we arrive at a large empty room, wallpapered from top to bottom with monitor screens. A large circular desk takes centre stage, its state-of-the-art touchscreen surface displaying both infrared and thermal scans of various 'hotspot' locations around the world. The interior floor and cieling sport a grey mat-like finish thats in stark contrast to the mouldy browns of the rooms upstairs.

"Now this is more like it!" grins Q, like an eight year old child told to spend a night in a Toys'R'us store on Christmas Eve.

Further on, we can see two more rooms splinter off to the laft and to the right. Guessing one is for 'munitions'. The other possibly...

"Hey, how you doing?"

The voice, alarming us both as we pull our weapons, comes from a man slowly emerging from the other room, hands raised, palms outwards. He's in his 30's, russian-looking, but the voice is distinctly American. Something about his face...

"Don't shoot! Please. I'm on your side. Been waiting here for you a while."

His voice is calm but assertive, with a whiff of confidence that borderlines on arrogance.

"Just say the word Holly, and this dude's swiss cheese." says Q. "Or Russian cheese. Or... whatever he is."

"Who are you?" I ask. Something about his face. Familiar.

"Don't you recognise me?" he asks. Got it!

"You're the guy at the club in Moscow." I tell him. "The one who gave me the telephone number."

"That turned out to be the access code to this base. The base that you and I are now standing in. What are the odds?"

He grins at me with a megawatt smile that could power this entire facility. Who the heck is this guy?

"If you're here for retribution for your ex-boss, I've got to warn you, nows definitely not a great time!"

"There's a _**right**_ time?" whispers Q.

"Oh, that scum wasn't my boss. And the world's a better place without him. As for your first question... It's probably easier if I show you. But please, try _not_ to freak out. You... may wanna ease up on those triggers."

He then slowly places his hands on either side of his head and does the unthinkable. He begins peeling his face off. Literally.

Q and I exchange a glance that's more for assurance that we are both **_awake_** than anything else.

Thankfully, just before we find ourselves collectively vomiting in unison, his 'face' it transpires is nothing more than an _incredibly_ convincing latex **mask**.

As for the _real_ face beneath it? Well, imagine a mad scientist decided to gene-splice the top tier cast of Ocean's 11 into one perfectly formed, deliciously sumptuous-

"**Holly?" **screams Q, interrupting my rather pleasant chain of thought. "You gonna, like, say something? I dunno, Interrogate him or...?"

But the only thing **I'm** thinking is; 'Please Lord, let me _**not**_ have to shoot this one?'

To be continued...


	28. File 28: The Impossible

**FILE HB007/028: The Impossible**

Istanbul, Safe House.

The last 48 hours have proved to be a headache of 'Wonderland' proportions.

A black market bidding war with no less than Q's very life at stake. A surprise reunion with my missing father, who it turns out **_wasn't. '_**Missing', that is. Who then tells me I've been accused of murdering the head of International Affairs, Richard Harper. Who wasn't actually the _real_ Richard Harper but a double who was set to take his place. In the grave, it would seem.

Now, grounded by said father in a government safe house somewhere in Istanbul, because, you know, that's what spy fathers do, I'm standing face to face... _to face_ with a Russian hoodlum from a recent mission in Moscow. Who not only turns out to be very **_American_**_, _but an incredibly, undeniably, good looki-

"Holly, your doing it **again**!" snaps Q, derailing my train of thought, his gun aimed squarely at the handsome stranger. "You wanna join us over here or...?"

"I'm thinking!" I snap back, covering my awkward shame. "Alright 'mystery man', for the **_final_** time, who the hell _are_ you?"

"The name's Hunt, Agent Tesla Hunt. I'm one of the good guys." he replies, hands raised.

"Good guy, eh? Well, why don't you start by telling us _exactly_ who-you-are, 'good guy'?"

"I... thought I just did?" he frowns, much to my embarrassment, as Q cuts me an understandably concerned look.

"The name's Hunt, agent Tesla Hunt. I'm I.M.F." he tells me, all serious, like it's supposed to mean something to me.

"Right... well, I'm... sorry to hear that." I reply, still holding my gun to him. "How long have they given you to live?"

"It's... a highly covert branch of US Intelligence, Miss Bond, not a terminal illness." he kindly informs me. "The kind of agency that technically doesn't exist?"

"Right. Well, of course it is, isn't it?" I say. "What I _don't_ know, Mr Hunt, is why I've never _heard_ of it?"

"Well, I **_presume_** It's because '_It's a highly covert branch of US Intelligence that technically doesn't exist_'? But then I _could_ just be _spitballing_ here."

Gorgeous _and_ sarcastic in equal measure. Great. I can practically hear Q's eyes rolling behind me, as the room goes embarrassingly quite.

"Okay, H," pipes up Q, "Maybe I should take over the _**questions**_ from here on?"

"Sure, no problem, I'll just continue with the _**ogling**_." I reply. Out loud, of course. Damn.

"Awkward!" mumbles Q, before quickly pressing on. "Okay, 'Hunt' is it? Why don't you start with how you know agent Bond here's name? Before going on to explain what you are doing trespassing on British intelligence-sanctioned soil in the middle of Turkey?"

"For a start, this location's neither US **_or_** British owned! And I've been following Miss Bond here for quite some time-_**not**_, _**I'll add, in some obsessive, freaky, stalker-like manner**__._ But by request."

"Who's request?" asks Q.

"Her fathers, actually." replies Hunt. "A valet at the fund raising event in Chillé, waiter at Grey's mansion in Puerto Rico, doorman at The Red Iron club in Moscow, and lastly, a delivery man at The Auction House in Alaska-_sweet roundhouse kick, by the way._"

"Thanks!" Is all I can muster to reply, as my head continues to spin from his statement.

"Impressive CV, mr .hunt!" comments Q. "What do you do for an encore, fart the melody of the national anthem?"

"Q! ...Excuse my colleague's behaviour, Mr Hunt, he's having a little more trouble swallowing your BS than I am. You say my _father_ asked you to spy on me?"

"Spy on you, no. Watch over you... strictly observational, mission-based surveillance, Miss Bond. _Can I call you Holly?_ Though from what I could see, highly unnecessary. You handle yourself _admirably_ well. In fact, if you ever decide you want to..."

"Oh, dream on, dreamy... _boyY!" Interrupts Q. "_She's with us! Get your own hot, young, blonde, super-spy!"

Wow, Q! I'm... wow.

"Hey, sure thing!" smirks Hunt, before casually asking, "Tell me, have either of you heard of a project codenamed**; Blindside?"**

"Can't say I have!" responds Q. I merely shake my head.

"Well good, cause that was kinda the whole point." he says "It dates back some 12 to 15 years, right after September 11th changed everything. Where the discovery of a worldwide extinction-level threat nobody knew _existed_ was uncovered, by an experimental anti-terrorism software programme called 'The Machine'."

"Okay, now I **_know_** your full of crap!" yells Q. "'The Machine' is a myth, cooked up by the NSA to scare the bejeebers out of any would-be terrorist affiliations, secretly lurking in the corners of american society."

"Bejeebers?" I ask, eyebrow raised. "Really, Q?" he shrugs in response.

"Oh I assure you, The Machine's as real as your MIT scholarship." continues Hunt. "Created by Harold Finch and Nathan Ingram, The Machine constantly analyses streams of data from a string of domestic government sources, such as the NSA, Interpol, CIA, all in an effort to predict terrorist attacks way in advance of their execution."

"Right, wasn't that a TV show on Fox, one time?" I joke. Hunt fails to see the humour and continues.

"On this particular occasion, the threat turned out to be a nerve toxin codenamed: **Elixir, **which was to be released simultaneously in five major cities across the world. Decades in the making, it was designed to target and instantly destroy the white blood cells in any living organism within a hundred mile radius."

"Come on Holly, he's buying himself time. Let me put the lost puppy down, do us all a favour!"

"Getting ahead ourselves, aren't we Mr Wishaw? Yeah, I've read your file. _King of the jungle_ wearing a lab coat, but out in the field? I'd be surprised if you knew which _end_ the bullets came out of!"

Q's face contorts into an expression likened to a teenage boy whose mum's just walked in on him amidst an 'awkward moment'. But as good an idea it may sound, wiping that smug-like expression from pretty boy's face, he's actually got my interest level considerably peeked.

"Only the highest level operatives of **five** of the worlds top organisations specialising in counter-terrorism were privy to the threats existence." he continues. "Eventually agreeing to work together, on this rarest of occasions, each submitted their most formidable agent for the task."

"Does this story, like, have an ending?" I ask, finally lowering my weapon from increased muscle fatigue. "I like my stories to have endings. Doesn't even need to be _happy_, just, you know... end?"

"Two of those five agents, Miss Bond, were a one 'Ethan Hunt' of IMF and commander 'James Herbert Bond' of MI6."

"No way! I... I don't believe it!" exclaims Q. "Bond's middle name... is **_Herbert_**?"

"This very base was central to their operation during the five weeks it took to both locate and eliminate the threat. Unfortunately, the identities of those _truly_ responsible were never uncovered. But, collectively, they are known as 'The Hand'. And they are five of the most criminally cunning minds ever to not exist."

"You... keep saying 'are'" I note.

"We believe The Hand are still operational today and currently hatching a renaissance strike of some sort, using 'Shop' technology we now refer to as 'Double-tech' to both infiltrate and strategically position their operatives within key roles of the very organisations tasked with bringing them to justice. But this is merely phase one, a brush stroke in a much larger canvas of destruction."

"And 'Quantum'? SPECTRE? How do they fit in with all of this?"

"Quantum's a red herring. A defunct extension of The Hand's reach, like so many others before it and since. Division, SD6, the list is extensive. Every time one gets shut down another takes its place... But every once in a while, we come across a name that simply leads nowhere."

"Right. You guys dig around, uncover a name and a handy doomsday plot, then stop digging. Meanwhile the real scheme and its perpetrator go unknown and unchallenged. The ultimate _slight of hand_. But it's still all an awful lot to swallow, Hunt. I take it you showing up here wearing 'Russian boy's' face was your attempt at-"

"Shortening this rather long and drawn-out conversation, yes, that was the general idea. An oversight on my part. Maybe I expected you to join the dots a lot _sooner_ between the two of you. Either way, we are running out of precious time neither of us have, so if you're not gonna shoot me, I suggest we all..."

"Oh, I didn't say that, pretty boy!" I reply, raising my gun to him again, blocking his path. "What do ya think, Q?"

Our attentions both turn to 'The smartest guy in the room™', whose been busy hammering away at his tablet for the past several minutes. He glances up, making that cute doe-eyed expression he normally does when its his time to shine.

"Personally?" he begins, "I think '_Canvas of Destruction_' would make an awesome bloody name for a mean 80's rock band tribute! Though I was always more of a '_soft metal' _guy_, _myself."

One roll of my eyes later.

"Moving on, there's _nought_ on 'frat boy's' tale of international chemical espionage, but his profile checks out. Born 'Tesla Edison Hunt' to a one Ethan Mathew Hunt-_father_, and Lyndsey Elizabeth Farris-_mother, _both high-ranking agents at **IMF, **who wereon a cover mission together somewhere in Saudi. Taking the term '_undercover_' to a whole new... not to mention, _intimate_ level, the two at some point... well... we're all adults here, right?"

Hunt's expression slips, his undeniable boyish charm disappearing behind a steely glare, as the room temperature seemingly drops.

"Flip! Says here 'Lyndsey was tragically killed some many years later, following her very own rescue mission led by Hunt senior, via a '_**kill chip' **_that was planted in her head that was triggered before she could tell Ethan about the boy. The man responsible, black market arms dealer 'Owen Davian', but he was killed sometime later by Ethan, somewhere in Shanghai. _And bloody good riddance,... I... say... oh...!"_

Q stops cold, mid-sentance, as he clocks Hunt's clearly miffed expression of bitter resentment, towards having his dirty laundry aired so publicly. Understandable, I guess.

"How did he do that?" asks Hunt, calmly. "Those files are heavily encrypted!"

"'Were'. Look, you have your tricks, I have mine! Alright?" riffs Q, rather flippantly. But Hunt simply glares at him in silence.

"...Which" continues Q, "I'd be _**more**_ than happy to run through with you, at your nearest convenience, of course! Just say the word."

As Q discreetly shuffles behind me, I finally lower my piece, but keep it prepped by my side.

"Ok Hunt, supposing I believe you for a second," I say, "theres not that much either of us can do. Im under house arrest, not to mention wanted for murder and Q's not exactly Jason Statham."

"I _actually_ take offence to that!"

"Follow me." replies Hunt, as he strolls past us into the main observation room, hurling the latex mask on the hook of a coat rail so it lands perfectly, staring at us like some ghastly ghoulish trophy piece.

"Pretty fancy facial tech, by the way." comments Q, as the inner geek in him re-surfaces with a vengeance. "Don't happen to have one of **Chris Pine** I could borrow?"

Hunt says nothing, just turns and responds with a wry smile. Damn that grin. How many hearts has it put a bullet through?

Hunt types in a few commands on the table-based virtual keyboard and a dozen profiles spring up on the main big screen, including the 'deceased' US director of IA and our very own M.

"Our first task is to locate and rescue these 12 individuals, who we believe are still alive and captive at a secret unknown location. But time is of the essence. Once they've exceeded their usefulness they **_will_** be executed. We need to rescue them, draw their doppelgängers into one confined location and switch the doubles with the original targets with the absolute minimum knowledge of our respective organisations!"

"Why, the more people who know, the merrier, right?" asks Q, leaving me to offer an explanation.

"If word got out to each of these organisations that they had been compromised in such a way, the damage caused by the resulting level of distrust and paranoia would be unrepairable. And you know the old adage...?"

"'A house divided is a house that can't stand'." offers Hunt. "And as for you both being recognised... I've got it covered."

"Right then!" I say. "But that still leaves us with a plan to execute that is, putting it as mildly as I can, going to prove a tad-"

"Difficult?"

"Yes."

"Well this isn't mission difficult, Miss Bond, it's mission _impossible_. 'Difficult' should be a walk in the park for you."

"Touché! Loving this guy already." comments Q. "But I've still got one burning question... those teeth of yours, are they _naturally_ brilliant-white or government issue veneers? Seriously."

"So what's the first play, Hunt?"

"Locating the whereabouts of _this_ woman," he replies, typing in a few more commands to bring up yet another profile, this time it's a woman. Possibly of vietnamese descent, early to mid 30's, exotically beautiful. Is she our target or an asset?

"Her name is Nikita Mears, and was one of our governments top assets before disappearing off grid into retirement."

Ok then.

"She, along with only a handful of allies were able to bring down one of The Hands most prominent and dangerous political factions. Known simply as 'The Group' they were the first to utilise 'Double tech' to infiltrate a number of high powered government arenas, including The White House."

"Woah, as in... **_The_** Whitehouse?" gasps Q.

"Yes." replies Hunt. "As apposed to a _residential_ home that was simply **_painted_** the colour white."

"_Smart-ass-mothe_-"

"So, how do we find her?" I briskly ask.

"That's the difficult part. She's since disappeared completely off grid. And trust me, if this lady does not want to be found you can forget needle in a haystack and try needle in a **_cornfield_**. Blindfolded. With both hands tied behind your ba-"

"Okay Hunt, we get it, thank you. Basically it's going to be a challenge" I say.

"Not... necessarily." offers Q. "I _think_ I may know a way."

To be continued...


	29. File 29: The Fall

**FILE HB007/029 THE FALL**

"Where's Hunt?" whispers Q, into my earpiece.

"Securing our extraction." I respond.

"Convenient." he replies.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I don't **_trust_** him!"

"Or you don't **_like_** him."

"I don't like him, **_because_** I don't trust him."

"No, Q, you don't trust him **_because_** you don't like him!"

"Okay, I think I'm pretty clued up as to which emotion I'm experiencing at which point in my-"

_"Alright, enough already...! _Why don't you tell me what the **_real_** issue is here?"

It's 2am on a decidedly windy morning on the rooftop of The Nakatomi Skyline in Tokyo, Japan. Directly opposite us, our main primary goal, the slightly smaller yet no less intimidating, Hazuki Enterprises, run by young billionaire enthusiasts, CEO Ryo Hazuki.

Our aim, to make our way over to his building, past numerous security systems and inside the main server room situated on the top floor. Once there, we will attach a small device that will temporarily allow Q to remotely 'do his thing', subsequently giving us the direct whereabouts, via one of the most powerful satellites in orbit, of one of the most elusive ex-agents to have worked for _any_ agency in any continent, Nikita Mears.

It's a bold plan, jointly thought up, believe it or not, by Q and Hunt. Making the former's recent outburst regarding the later all the more difficult to digest.

"The 'issue' Holly," he elaborates, "Is that these US government types are about as trustworthy as a £7 note! Always slithering around from place to place, with their dark shades and _ulterior motives, _drip-feeding the odd snippet of '_seemingly'_ vital information... but never giving away the **_full_** picture!"

"Oh, be a professional, Q. We all have secrets we're not at liberty to share. Comes with the territory. Check page 93 in the spy handbook, paragraph four I believe."

"Really? Well, **_I_** don't have any secrets! Do you?"

"Sure! For a start, I snore like an 12-cylinder engine! It's a 'sinus' thing, apparently. But curable. Oh, and I talk in my sleep. As in full-blown Shakespearean monologues. Of course, I'm never awake at the time, so can neither confirm or deny these allegations, however... Q?"

"_What? Oh, I was just._.. look, seriously H, I read up on these **IMF** boys. They are _masters_ of sleight of hand! The ultimate post-911 illusionists, specialising in mis-direction, mis-information..."

"The point, Q!" I sigh.

"Point being, nothing is ever what it seems with these guys... one minute you could be singing to yourself in the shower, enjoying a morning scrub... the next, you step out and find yourself on stage at the O2 arena, all your bits flapping about in the wind for the world to scrutinise..."

"Ok, that really **_is_** disturbing."

"Exactly! Who knows **_which_** part of **_what_** Hunt's told us is the-"

"No, I'm referring to the _starkly vivid image, _you've just **scared** my mind for life with. Cheers!"

"Holly..!"

"Oh, don't be such a nerd, nerd. Bottom line is, Hunt's okay by me. You checked him out yourself. And besides, we need as many hands as we can get to keep this ship from sinking."

"'Checked him out'? Sure I did." he says. "Looks to me like I wasn't the **_only_** one."

If I _**didn't**_ know better I'd say he was jealous. But I do, so I have to take his concerns seriously. Play it cautious, at least for now. As for his last remark, I don't respond. Initially because, to be honest, I don't know what to say. But most importantly because I can hear Hunt himself behind me, rapidly approaching.

"We're good to go!" he announces, with that cheeky grin of his. "My wingman will rendezvous with us in an hour. A rooftop, roughly 5 miles south of this location, which doesn't leave us a lotta time."

"I don't know, Hunt." I reply. "Those handy masks of yours enabled us to stroll right past airport security at both ends of the journey! Not to mention, several CIA spooks in their lame disguises along the way. Why don't we just go out the way we came in?"

"Because, its the way we came in." he replies, matter-of-factly. Which, I guess, kinda makes sense.

"Alright then, lets go!"

I toss him his own earpiece receiver and the two of us make our way over to the edge of the skyscraper, where it appears to be even **_more_** windier. Great.

"You reading me, Q?" he asks, tapping the earpiece into place.

"Loud and clear, 'Pearly-whites'." replies Q. "Ladies and gentlemen, we now have a **_three_-_way_! ...**which, incidentally, sounded a lot _**less**_ seedier in my head!"

"Okay, lets quickly go over the details." begins Hunt. "Q, once we've attached the 'Ghost-core' device, you'll have approximately sixty seconds to access their satellite systems **_before_** the defence protocol picks up on the intrusion and automatically activates the lockdown mechanism. At which time, if we're still inside... well... we might as well sit tight, rent a movie and wait for security to arrive. Are you sure your friends software's up to the task?"

"Hey, don't worry about me, 'mate'! I've got **_my_** shizzle on lockdown, get me?"

Hate it when Q tries to talk ghetto. Judging by Hunt's frown, I'm not the only one.

"You just make sure you've got H's back covered!" continues Q. "Remember, this is Ryo Hazuki. Recently leapt up a few notches on Forbes top 100, when you iced his main financial rival, Dorian Grey. His company, Hazuki Enterprises, specialises in next-gen software components, of which they are considered modern day pioneers. Nicknamed; The Digital Ronin, this guy takes no prisoners with those who cross him. Only **_parts_** of them... a limb here, an organ there... seriously, if this bloke catches us, there's no telling-"

"Well then we stick to the plan of **_not_** being caught." interrupts Hunt, fearless as ever. "Besides, not much chance of **_anything_** happening to **_you_** even if **_we_** were caught! What, with you being on the outside?"

"Low blow, Hunt. Low blow..." mumbles Q, as I attempt to rescue the situation.

"Q, lighten up! Hunt, a little focus please? Q's utilising advanced software from a known and trusted associate, to ride digital-shotgun. I'm confident he'll deliver!"

"ShadowNet lives again." whispers Q, unintentionally out loud.

"Well, if _**you're**_ confident...!" remarks Hunt, with a pinch of sarcasm.

"Moving on." interrupts Q. "The grapple-rifles in your bags are made from reinforced carbon fibre, equipped to fire over 140 feet of compressed steel cabling over a matched distance. Found em, whilst snooping around in the munitions room. They're a little on the dated side, but what isn't these days?"

I position the rifle on my shoulder. It's deceptively light, but has a kick that nearly sends me on my ass when I pull the trigger. Thankfully, Hunt is on hand to... well... keep me sturdy...!

Even at this distance, the sound of the spike piercing the wall of the other building can faintly be heard. Good thing it's after two in the morning, and the only people we're likely to run unto are a handful of donut-scoffing night patrolmen.

Both ends of both cable's secured in either building, Hunt preps himself to go first. But I've got other plans.

"Give it a few beats, then follow after me." he says. "That way you'll be able to provide cover should there be any 'complications' awaiting me."

"What am I, a rookie?" I ask. "Where's your manners, Hunt? You know it's always '_ladies before gentlemen'!_"

He grins and steps to one side like the gent he is, and I start my way down the zip line towards the target.

It's a long smooth ride down. Maybe too smooth, as I'm gathering increased momentum. Yet there's a peculiar sense of freedom, what, with the wind brushing bristly against my face. Freedom. No other word quite describes the feeling, zipping diagonally down through the air, 490 feet from the ground, at a speed in excess of... wait... a slight jolt in my motion. There it is again. The cabling up ahead... it must be fraying!

"Err... guys, the cable's not secure and I'm coming in too fast!"

"You what? _...**It's what?**_" screams Q.

I'm trying not to panic, myself. No unnessasary movements to agrevate the motion. Need to keep it smooth. Hopefully make it to-No! Another jolt. Another thread gone!

"Holly, hang on, right behind you !" I hear Hunt call, as he launches himself down his own zip line after me. Although, realistically, there's not much he can do anyway. My best chance is to hope I get to the other side **_before_**... NO! ...More of the thread's given way. Not looking good, Holly. Need to hang on... Two more threads snap. God, no! ...Nearly there. The roof, just ahead of me. Almost...

"Holly!...H?"

Too late. The final cable's snapped.

To be continued?


	30. File 30: The Paranoia

Tokyo.

Population north of 37.8 million. And yet still, somehow, one of the cleanest cities in the world, _virtually_ litter-free.

So clean, in fact, that earlier I dropped sushi on the street during our recon scout run and had no second thoughts about picking it right up again. Of course, I offered that _**particular**_ piece to Hunt, but he never seemed to mind.

And now my very _own_ body's destined to litter on those very same streets, 150 feet below. Right after, of course, I slam into the 15mm of reinforced glass I'm currently heading towards.

Of course, there's a slim chance the momentum will be enough to carry me **_through_** the bloody thing, but it's **_real_** slim. '_Like an anorexic needle on a low fat diet_' Q would say. Ah, Q. Guess I'll never get a chance now to tell him how I-_wait_, the window... it's cracking, splintering... someone's shooting at it. Behind me.

Hunt.

With barely seconds to spare, the window's weakened _just_ enough to allow my 119 pound frame to breach it's surface, tumble over an office desk, two monitor screens and a keyboard, en route to the neutrally coloured carpet-tiled floor. Perfection.

Immediately, I glance around the large open-planned office to confirm no after-hour workers are in sight. Something behind me catches my eye. Through the same window I see Hunt, he's heading straight towards me. The crazy fool's disengaged himself early from his zip line.

He dives feet first through the broken glass, before rolling skilfully over the awaiting desk to land safely onto his feet. I'd stand up and applaud, but it'd be too much of an effort. Besides, I'm too busy picking shards of glass out of my butt.

"What took you so long?" I ask, briskly.

"Are you ok?"

"I'll live. I could have met you up _top_, you know?"

"The mission is we stick together, no matter what. No deviations."

"Alright then, why are we sitting around here yapping, lets go!"

He helps me to my feet and we make our way to the main entrance. I really should thank him.

[["_Holly! Are you alright?"_]] screams Q, down my earpiece. [["**_Hunt? Anybody?_"]]**

"I'm good, we're good... Hunt's with me and we're making our way to the Server room now."

[["_Thank God! Alright, I've tapped into the surveillance systems and started to run the loop. Hopefully it'll be plain sailing from here on._"]]

"Great. Bond out."

'Plain sailing', right. Like I've ever experienced **_that_** before.

"**Sure** you're ok, Bond?" asks Hunt, still visibly concerned.

"I'm sure I _answered_ that already." I reply.

"What happened out there?"

"The cable snapped. No big deal."

"Faulty cabling from the equipment Q found lying around the base. No big deal at all."

"What are you getting at, Hunt?"

"Maybe something, maybe nothing."

"Or maybe your just making something _out of _nothing?"

"Maybe. Let's keep moving. Hopefully a gaurd wasn't nearby and heard the commotion."

"Too late on that." I whisper, motioning towards the door and the sound of jingling keys in it's lock.

Like two cats we spring forward positioning ourselves on opposite sides of the door as it opens to reveal a night guard, middle-aged, creeping cautiously in.

Spotting the considerably large whole in the window with his flashlight, he immediately takes out his radio to call it in. The only thing stopping him, being the feeling of Hunt's gun pressed firmly against his temple and my own weapon aimed squarely at his most private of parts. I can read in his eyes, he's thinking about going for his gun.

["**Go ahead.**"] I tell him, in my most stoic Japanese. ["**One of us is bound to miss, right? Question is, which? You'll either live the remainder of your life an honourable ****eunuch****, or simply not live at all! It's your call.**"]

He gulps, loudly, before pursing his quivering lips together to report; ["**All... cool here! False alarm**."] right before Hunt sends him to sleep with the back of his pistol.

"Nice 'eunuch' line." he comments.

"Yeah, got a whole mental filing cabinet _full_ of zingers, just waiting to be distributed! Let's move."

The two of us quickly proceed upwards to the top floor server room, now three floors up, via the nearest stairwell. During the silent walk up, I almost forget Hunt's there. It's strange having somebody else with me on field missions. Kinda like an awkward first date. Yet, all the _more_ strange is how **natural** it all somehow feels.

But I sense something still seems to be bothering him.

"Awfully quite, Hunt." I comment.

"How many times have you and Q been apart since leaving England?" he asks.

"Once or twice. Why?"

"Roughly _how long _per instance?"

Oh boy, is he for real?

"Forget it, Hunt. What your thinking is impossible."

"And you know what I'm thinking, do you?"

"I know what your _implying_. And it doesn't hold up. Only a handful of _known_ people his age in the world can do what he does."

"Well then that just takes it from the realm of the impossible into the _improbable, _doesn't it? Keeping in mind, a couple of days ago he was ready to put a bullet between my eyes."

"He'd only just **_met_** you. Heck, I wanted to put a bullet between your eyes."

"Which matches **_your_** psychological profile to a tee. Not so much his. Look, all I'm saying is... well... keep your eyes open. The Hand's greatest weapon is paranoia, but it could be _equally_ catastrophic not to-"

"Okay, stop! I think you're forgetting, I've known Q for years! **_I've_** only just _met_ you. If anyone warrants my mistrust,**_you'd_** be topping that list! Or did you think a pretty face and a winning smile would be enough to get you by?"

"Most days." he grins.

"Evidently, this isn't one of them." I reply, sharply.

"Evidently. Your right, of course, you've no reason to trust me any more than you have to **_not_** trust me. Guess, time will tell all, to all. Top floor. We're here."

And with that, silence takes it's rightful place amongst us once more, as we finally enter the top floor hallway and onto our primary mission.

Problem is, much as I hate to admit it, Hunt may have a point. Any and everyone's under suspicion now, and Q and I**_haven't_** been around each other 24/7 since first flying out. But then, this is Q, it'd be too high risk to pass someone off as him, right?

Having said that, he did seem all too willing back there to send Hunt into early retirement, permanently. And there's been the odd occasions where he's said something or reacted... well... strange... but **_that_** could be just his way of processing this whole bizarre situation.

Could a switch really have been made somewhere along the line? Moscow? Alaska? Who **_was_** it in the trunk of that car? Did he really sabotage the grappling line? And what of Hunt? Oh, you mean the guy who risked his own life to rescue you from probable death, Holly, what about him?

Damn. This situation sucks.

As we head down the hallway to the main server room entrance. Hunt slips a latex glove on and pops in a brown contact lens in one eye. Then, standing outside the door, he places the gloved hand on a wall panel which reads the fake fingerprints, gazing into an A-grade retina scanner through the contact lens before 'presto', the doors open.

Again with the trademark grin.

"Explain one more time how you come to know so much about this place?" I ask.

"Mr Ryo and his corporation have been on our radar for quite some time, Miss Bond. We have reams of files detailing everything from their oversees investments, to the eating habits of virtually every employee in the building. Getting in_here_ is a cinch.

Anyway, when Q mentioned he had a means to track down Nikita but needed an adequate satellite signal to piggy-back off of, this place immediately sprung to mind. We've probably got more access to his private files than half the members of his board. Now, we're looking for server Lt314-00678R. And we don't have a lotta time."

"Piece of cake." I reply as I casually glance around, masking my hidden awe.

It's a large expansive room, filled with seemingly hundreds of floor to ceiling matte black data-towers, with thousands of flashing lights blinking in perfect synchronisation, bathing the entire room in rich sci-fi blue hues. A virtual maze of technology. There's a continuous reverberating hum that dominates the air in an almost hypnotic fashion. And the entire place is kept cool at an optimised level by a gazillion fans. Q would have a field day. Speaking of which.

"Hey Nerd, you there?"

Silence.

"Q?"

[["_I'm here, what's your status?_"]]

?.. O-kay then...

"Our... 'status' is we're in the server room." I reply. "You should see it. Kind of how I'd imagined the inside of your brain looked-"

[["_Have you located the source?_"]]

What's up with him?

"No." I reply.

"Yes!" shouts Hunt, poking his head out from behind a nearby tower. "Hooking your little gizmo up to it, now. Give it 10, then fire it up!"

[["_Roger that, standing by!_"]]

Wow, don't I feel the spectator at my own party. Maybe Q's just anxious. Although, can't imagine why, not like hasn't done this before. Unless he _**hasn't**_ done this before. Because he isn't really 'he'? God, I think I'm losing my-

"**Whoa, is that an alarm?**" asks Hunt. "**Why am I hearing an alarm?**"

He's right. Something's been triggered. It's deafening, too. How the heck did it happen?

[["_**NO, NO, NO... DAMN IT! THAT's IMPOSSIBLE!**"_]] screams Q. [[_"**I've activated some kind of... virtual tripwire. They know your there! Multiple bogies heading your way, now!**"_]]

"How, Q, you said it would be _impossible_ to det-"

[["_**I know what I said, Hunt, I was kinda there when I said it!** Just... get out of there! Abort mission!_"]]

"Negative." I say. "Have you located the whereabout of the agent?"

[["_Triangulating her position now, but Holly, it'll take at least another-_"]]

"Do it!" I tell him. "We only get **_one_** shot at this!"

"Can you slow them down?" suggests Hunt, locking and loading his weapons.

[["_I've de-activated all lift systems, but that will simply force them up the stairway. It's still every guard in the bloody building. Holly, you cannot let this guy capture you, he's a-"_]]

"How long, Q?"

[["_I read 4... make that 6, already there on your level now, rapidly approaching!_"]]

"The trace! How long for the trace?"

[["_1 minute, 58 seconds...!_"]]

"Let us know when it's done!" I tell him, as I load up my twin Beretta's. "Okay, Hunt, lowest score buys lunch for everyone! And I'm not talking 'Happy Meals'!"

"Well then, you better bring your A-game and a black card!" he smiles, positioning himself advantageously. "I've seen how much Q can put away!"

[["_I heard that!"_]]

As we ready ourselves behind separate towers, armed with dual pistols and a bucket load of testosterone, I can't help but think to myself, as far as first dates would go, this is kinda perfection.

To be continued...


	31. File 31: The Samurai

Japan. 02:37am.

From the outside looking in, all would appear normal in the top floor server room of Hazuki Enterprises Tokyo-based tech-branch. All but for the odd sight of muzzle flash sporadically lighting up the entire floor area, that is.

For inside, both Hunt and I have found ourselves neck-deep in a seemingly never-ending sea of security as they relentlessly pour in. Least we can do is keep ourselves entertained as we fight to hold them off, as we wait for Q to locate the hidden asset, Nikita Mears. Just praying we don't run out of ammo in the meantime.

The one ace in our favour seems to be the guards apparent reluctance to cause even the most minimal damage to any of the server towers. But how long will that last?

"Ha!" screams Hunt, triumphantly. "That's number 12!"

"You mean, 11!" I scream back.

"Keep up, Bond, I just nailed the fat one with the limp. Makes it 12 by my count!"

"He was limping because I'd only just 'put one' in his leg. Followed by another two in his chest, meaning he was as good as dead, already making it 15/11 to the Brits! Sorry, old boy."

"Damn you, Bond..." he sighs.

|"_Seriously? Are the two of you really...? Look, it's done, okay?The asset has been located, somewhere in Maui, Hawaii. Now get your assess down here, you don't have much time!_"|

"Sure. Only, something tells me the rooftop's no longer a viable option." shouts Hunt.

"The window?" I shrug. "Worked getting in."

"Only just." remarks Hunt.

|"_Well, whatever you decide, do it quickly! I'm reading another 12... make that 15 guards heading your way via the stairwells, and another dozen coming up in the lifts._"|

"The lifts?" says Hunt. "But I thought...!"

|"_Yeah, they were. SOB's somehow managed to hack back into their system and shut my, admittedly impressed, arse out!_"|

"Gee. And I thought that was impossible, sorry, 'improbable'!" remarks Hunt, glaring in my direction.

"Dammit, not now!" I tell him. "Alright, so it's the original exit plan. We substitute the roof for the window, moving on three! Hunt, you'll be running cover duties at the rear as we move. Flight suits'll take care of the journey down as originally planed. Q, you better have that van there ready! Are we clear, people?"

"Crystal. But just so I'm straight, I'm gonna be 'covering your rear', right?" asks Hunt, with that returning grin of his.

|"_Try being a professional, Hunt, and focus on the task at hand!_"| barks Q, almost out of character.

"Sure thing, 'quartermaster', just so long as you've done likewise and quality checked these wing-suits you've got us strapped into."

|"_Hey, I'm not taking the flak for every frigging piece of defective hardware we come across. I didn't build the bloody-_"|

"Damn it you two quit it, or so help me I'll put a bullet in you both myself!" I scream, as the second wave of security filters into the room. "Be ready to move on 1, 2, 3!"

And with that, we set off full speed down the centre isle, towards one of the large windows, me firing point blank at the glass, and Hunt skilfully picking off every guard foolish enough to poke his head out along the way.

|"_Guys, wait a minute! Got something very large coming your way!_"|

We stop just short of the window, as the sound of vibrating glass begins to build. Behind us, the guards, weapons still poised on our position, have ceased their firing, as a large shadow suddenly engulfs the view from the window.

"Is that... a chopper?" observes Hunt, correctly.

And not just any chopper, a Bell AH-1 Cobra. 'When you absolutely, positively gotta kill every secret agent in the room, accept no substitutes'. I guess.

"There goes our, quite literal, window of opportunity." comments Hunt.

"Yea. Hope you're thinking up the third exit strategy?" I whisper, dropping my weapon in surrender. "Last idea was mine."

|"_Technically, it was mine._"|

All of a sudden, a fairly familiar voice speaks out from behind the group of onlooking guards.

"Well, well, well...!"

Then a figure emerges, revealed to be the very same patrolman Hunt and I ran into downstairs and still nursing the head wound Hunt gave him following that encounter .

"How the chairs have turned!" he gloats in his own unique brand of dismantled english.

"It's 'tables', Shakespeare!" I quip. "Look, if your going to intimidate us, at least do it in a manor we can understand. Or is that part of the torture?"

He walks over to me and looks me dead in the eye. After a moments hesitation he suddenly takes an unexpected swing at Hunt's gut, connecting with a muffled but definitely audibly 'thump'.

"Hunt!" I scream, in rather un-cool fashion.

|"_Holly, whats happening up there?_"| yells Q.

"I'm... good." splutters Hunt. "Caught me off guard, is all."

"Paybacks a bitch!" laughs the guard. "Did I get that right?"

"No. Your mother's a bitch! Payback's what you got coming!"

He smiles at me in response, then turns back to Hunt to deliver another round of 'hide the fist'. Hunt doubles over, spluttering to himself.

"Come on, Hunt, even I saw that one coming!" I quip.

["**Enough!**"]

The voice is strong, assertive, and immediately commands the atention of every guard on the floor, as they all stand aside as if heralding the arrival of a member of royalty.

And then 'he' appears.

His face, a subtle blending of both asian and Japanese textures and contours. His physicality, imposing, though not so much in size and mass but rather... stature. His muscularly, although concealed beneath a nifty pastel-blue Armani suit, is clearly defined. And on his feet, surely the snazziest pair of expensive-looking slippers anyone's feet has ever had the pleasure of slipping into? And the way he effortlessly glides in them, almost in slow motion but with absolute certainty of his authority.

Kind of how I'd imagine Bruce Lee would be if he were still alive today.

He approaches me first, peering deep into my eyes with those shiny black pupils of his as I await for round one of 'question time' to begin. But he says nothing. Opting instead to turn his attention to the window behind me, dismissively waving the chopper away.

**["Ryo Hazuki, I presume."] **remarks Hunt in note perfect Korean.

But he doesn't respond. Not so much as an eye twitch.

Within seconds, one of the men from the back steps forward brandishing, of all things... a samurai sword. A frigging century old samurai sword! And suddenly Qs somewhat cryptic warning earlier begins to make terrifying sense.

**["We... have... information that could prove beneficial to you."]** I inform him, hastily. I'm lying of course, hoping Q would pick up on the hint and deliver me something I can use.

Still waiting.

Meanwhile, Hazuki takes the samurai sword firmly in his hands and gives the faintest of nods to two of his nearest men, who immediately seize hold of Hunt, extending his right arm outwards.

**["Wait! I said, we have vital information...!"] **I repeat. But it falls on deaf ears.

Hazuki then begins playfully twirling the sword between his fingers with alarming speed and skill. The guy's bad alright. But Hunt seems... strangely relaxed and unperturbed by it all.

**["You know, I should warn you..."] **pipes up Hunt. **["but I'll be forced to trade it with you for your life! Look into my eyes, Hazuki-san, yell me I am bluffing!"]**

"Hunt, shut up, you idiot! Let me handle this!"

"Relax, Bond. I got this." he almost convincingly replies.

Suddenly Hazuki stops dead in his tracks, as if something's registering in his mind. What is it? What does he know that's got him so spooked so all of a sudden?

That's when I see it. The red dot positioned directly over his heart. The kind of red dot that's synonymous with a laser scope, itself, more often than not , attached to the barrel of a sniper rifle.

He's men immediately scramble into defensive positions around him, as I watch his gaze drift off past the window behind us and towards... something across the street in the building opposite. The shooter?

Then his mobile phone rings, some weird abstract fusion of hip-hop and metal and he slowly takes it out from inside his jacket pocket, before placing it to his ear and listening attentively.

After a moment or two he speaks.

**["Are you sure you wish to do this?"] **His voice carries with it the vaguest hint of regret.

**["Very well. This... concludes... our business together. And makes us... finally even. When next we meet, little tiger, things will be... different."]**

He switches the phone off, slowly returning it to it's home, before giving his men the disgruntled signal to release us, which they do with immediate effect. Even as far as to radio ahead for the rest of the buildings security to stand down.

Whoever was on the end of the line must have been owed big-time and collected in spades. But the timing's too perfect. Hunt had this rigged up from the beginning but chose not to share knowledge of it. Why? Because he doesn't trust Q. Or because he doesn't trust me?

As we make our way cautiously towards the room's exit, our friend from earlier decides straight orders aren't good enough and steps forwarded to make that disapproval known, loud and clear. The idiot.

One blur of movement later and Hazuki's sword is a mere millimetre from the guy's neck. A driblet of blood, treacles along the edge of the blade before swan-diving off of it's tip to make a red splash on the charcoal grey carpet.

Hazuki's eyes fix firmly onto mine the whole time, as if to 'mark' me for some future engagement I frankly hope never happens. For his sake.

"Okay, okay, time to go." Insists Hunt, ushering me out of the doors.

Finally outside, we make a b-line towards Q, who's van's has long sinced screeched up onto the curb, taking out an expensive statue or two in the process.

"Slide over, I'm driving!" says Hunt, nudging Q aside as we both get in, making our way speedily towards the extraction point. Then Hunt voice activates his phone to make an urgent call.

"Hunt. Echo. Bravo. Whisky. 5. 0. 4. 2. Tango. Extraction minus 20, en route. Do not leave without us. Confirm, repeat."

"You know, Hunt, you keep driving at this speed and we'll probably end up back in time?" I remark.

"And do that all over again, forget it! I mean, I still can't believe Hazuki was actually there, in the flesh, and you're both still alive?"

"You sound almost disappointed?" says Hunt, checking the side mirrors to ensure we're not being followed.

"With Holly, no. With you, sure." replies Q.

"Hunt had someone on the outside looking in. A sniper. Who was that, by the way?" I ask.

"A mutual benefactor." he replies.

"That's all well and poetic," I say, "but I'd rather a simple straightforward name, if its alright with you?"

"Irrelevant to the current circumstance. You'll know when you need to know."

"See, I told you!" comments Q. "Standard need to know crap. 'Suits' are all the same. Some are just prettier than others."

"Hunt-"

But he cuts me off, choosing instead to steer the conversation back to the current mission at hand.

"Q, did you manage to triangulate the asset's precise whereabouts? Less I remind you this mission is extremely time-orientated, with a lotta lives at stake and minimum room for any further errors in judgement?"

Damn it. Not liking this one bit. And neither is Q. When this entire mess is over with, Hunt and I are going to have a long serious talk.

I give Q the approval nod to brief Hunt on everything he's come up with and just sit there in silence. Listening. Thinking. Watching. At this stage I really have no idea who to trust. I'm on my own and yet find myself having my life placed firmly in the hands of two men who may or may not have my best interest at heart.

As we reach the extraction point on the roof of a small abandoned building, climb into the awaiting helicopter and head sky-bound onto our next destination, I can't shake that bad feeling I get whenever death's about to pay me another casual 'just passing through' visit.

Just hope he's not planning on staying this time.

To be continued...


	32. File 32: The Asset

Listening to the latest online news report, we hear details of the ongoing wo-manhunt for who the media are now dubbing 'The Red Iron Assassin', with local authorities in every major state apparently contributing their resources.

To be honest, there's a small part of me that feels almost privileged to finally be getting some attention. One of the hardest parts of this job, after all, is the continual risking of one's own life to save potentially thousands of others, without the faintest whisper of acknowledgement or gratitude, because frankly the lot of them were blissfully unaware they were in any danger in the first place.

Although recognition for the death of the director of International Affairs is not quite what I had in mind. Stranger still, that my real identity is still being kept under wraps. Do they really not know who I am? Or is keeping it in the dark part of some larger plan?

"Alright people, 15 till showtime." announces Hunt, as our chopper glides towards the sandy-white shores that surround the 729 square miles of mid-Pacific land known as Maui.

Now this is more like it.

The sight of what appears to be an 80ft whale backflipping into the marine-blue waters just confirms to me this would be the ideal place to retire to. Being the second largest island in Hawaii, with one of the smallest populations only sweetens that deal. I can see its appeal to those trying to exist off-grid. Those like Nikita Mears and Michael Bishop. Or to call them by their alias's, George and Michelle Webber. Located by one of Q's high-tech facial recognition softwares via Hazuki's orbiting satellites. Who knows how they'll react to our arrival?

Once in position over an awaiting boat, courtesy of one of Hunt's numerous contacts, the three of us rappel down onto it's deck, before setting off towards the shore.

So many questions still yet to be answered. Hunt, Q, my father... how is he? Where is he? Wish I could contact him somehow, know if he's alright? No, need to be strong, shut those thoughts out. He'll be alright, Holly, it's yourself you need to worry about.

"Holly, I need to show you something." whispers Q with urgency, suddenly appearing from the lower deck below. He's clutching his tablet rather closely to his chest like it was a pacemaker, glancing up towards Hunt on the upper deck, who's busy in deep discussion with the ships captain.

"What is it?" I ask, more out of curiosity than worry. After all, it's not like the situation could get any worse?

He takes me to the back of the deck, away from Hunt's receptive ears, before finally revealing to me what on his screen has got him so spooked.

"Being the dual-minded task master I am," he explains, "I used a secondary algorithm worm to reinterpret the-"

"English, Q!"

"Right. I basically left a bug on Hazuki's satellite to continually scour the airwaves in hope of picking up anything that would keep us ahead of the bad-guys, and found this; It's an open-contract for your apprehension, alive or dead.

Okay, so I'm a wanted girl. Kinda knew that already.

"I'm not talking the authorities here, this contract went out to every assassin worth his salt on the planet!"

So that's why they never released my name. They don't want me caught, they just want me silenced, permanently. Keep me running scared until I eventually trip up and make a mistake.

"I've been through the profiles of some of these guys, Holly, they're highly skilled professionals, like real REAL bad guys..."

"I've faced dozens of these guys before, and put down more of em than I can count. It'll take more than-"

"'Sonya Romanov' aka 'Red Sonya'." he begins, "Youngest ever recruit to make it onto the Spetsnaz roster of ass-kicking super soldiers, and some say the deadliest. Making the fact she's a woman all the more impressive.

Viggo 'the riga' Mortis aka 'The Doorman at Death's Door'. A danish serial killer for hire, ex-Hunter Corps gone rogue. Said to have had more victims than the plague.

'Antonio Rodriguez' aka 'The Mexican', ex-mariachi turned vigilante for hire. Carries a guitar case full of weapons that guaranties a show-stopping - not to mention, heart-stopping, performance that'd quite literally bring the house down. I could go on..."

"Yes, you certainly can go on at times, can't you?"

"I'm serious, alright? Somebody out there wants you very dead and clearly 'natural causes' ain't gonna cut it! Now look, this plan to bring down The Hand admittedly seemed like a cool idea to begin with... stupid, but cool... but this whole other thing right now, this is punching way above either of our weights. Maybe we should just let the big boys like Hunt and your father handle this and find a-"

"Rock to hide under? Forget it! My father's only one man, with his own set of mission objectives to achieve. We have our own, which we will finish, with no deviations to the original plan!"

"Careful, Holly, you're starting to sound a little too much like Hunt, over there."

"And your sounding less and less like the 'I can do anything I put my mind to', MIT graduate with honours I was first introduced to all those years ago. Do you remember the first thing I said to you then?"

"I fail to see what-"

"What was it, again?" I ask.

"I... look, Holly, this isn't the time to-"

"What, you don't remember?"

"How... could I forget?" he mumbles.

"Quite easily, by the sound of things..." I reply.

"Okay, wait. What is this? Are you really-?"

"Alright you two," interrupts Hunt. "Managed to acquire three possible locations our asset could be stationed at. This is your 5 minute call."

I wave back in response, before turning back to continue my conversation with Q, only to find he's no longer there, leaving me with a million more questions to answer. And topping that list, the identity of 'Q'. As for the contract, I can pretty much handle any threat I see coming, but unseen? And for how long?

"You okay?" asks Hunt, strolling over to me. "Things appeared to be a bit strained with the boy genius?"

"We're good." I tell him, "The situation, not so."

"Referring to the open contract on your life." he tells me. Conveniently.

"Wait, you knew? Why didn't you...?"

"Wasn't the right time...!" he says.

"Really? And when was the right time?"

"Well, now, of course."

"Oh, you are so-"

"Smart, intelligent, good looking? All three? None of the above? Truth is it doesn't matter. I mean, what did you think we were doing here, exactly? There's an above average chance none of us are walking out of this thing alive, what difference is having a few more guns pointed in our direction gonna make?"

"You mean my direction?" I say.

"Forgetting Q and I are right here beside you? Our direction! But we've got it covered. Constant eyes all around us at all times, if someone even breaks wind in your direction, we'll know about it."

"Crass, Hunt. Really... really crass."

"Yea, well sometimes it helps to get the message across, right?" he smiles. Damn that smile.

"What's in this for you, anyway?" I ask, in a moment of curiosity. "You seem like a guy who's kind of got a lot going for himself?"

"Looks are generally deceiving. But, when I was 5, I was given away by my mother to an orphanage in a small town nobody's heard of, left to grow and develop my own values, sense of purpose, a moral compass.

Anyway one night, some years later, a fire starts. Nobody knows how or why. Claims the life of every child and adult in the building, bar two, myself and another boy named Forest Riley. Irony is, during my entire stay at the orphanage we literally hated one another, and constantly fought. But in that moment, faced with certain death, the value of a life became apparent to us both. Any and every life. That's why I do this. That's why we must succeed!"

"Every life but the bad guy's you mean?"

He responds with a smile as he wanders off, leaving me to contemplate my own values, crafted from a similar childhood. Eerily similar.

To be continued...


	33. File 33: The Snakebite

The Snakebite

Maui. Mid-afternoon.

The four of us make our way through a local town and onto the last possible location where the asset Nikita is possibly residing at, hoping it'll be third time lucky.

The ship's captain 'Alfonso' makes a pretty adequate guide, occasionally pointing out various places of interest, each replete with a short quirky story detailing how they came about, that regardless of how true, proves immensely entertaining.

Finally we arrive at a small local dive by the name of 'The Magic Kitchen'. From the outside it doesn't look anything particularly fancy or memorable, but then I guess that's kind of the whole point.

"Alright, Q. We'll take it from here on in." announces Hunt, tucking his weapon behind his back. "The less new faces wandering in coincidently, the better. Best you remain out here with Alfonso. Trust me, you really don't want to see this woman's bad side."

'Nice one, Hunt' I think to myself, that's gonna go down like a grenade in a minefield. However...

"Sure, no problem." responds Q, rather calmly. "I'll hang back here with ole captain Alfonso. You guys go on ahead and shout me if you need me."

Almost too calm.

"Hunt, you sure about this 'direct' approach?" I ask. "Last I heard, my face was still plastered on every notice board of every intelligence agency with a three-letter abbreviation!"

"Relax, this place's so low under the radar it practically doesn't exist. Besides, we need to go in clean, no masks, no tricks. It's imperative she view us as a non-lethal threat. Only I am to engage her, you follow my lead. Whipping off a fancy mask before yelling 'Hi there, we could really do with your help right now!' aint gonna cut it this time round."

"Worked for you?"

"That took more planning than you'll ever know. And in any case, you're not Nikita."

Sure there's a compliment in there somewhere...

"She really that good?" I ask.

But he doesn't respond. At least, not verbally. Just that same cheeky-boy smile which never seems to get old. I push my hair up into my cowboy hat and don a pair of over-sized aviators. Hunt roughs up his hair and grabs me by the waist, laughing at an untold joke and I pick up his lead, giggling like the mischievous 4th grade schoolgirl I never had the chance to be. We enter.

"And that, darling, is why you always pour the cider in first and never the beer! Here, I'll show you... bartender, two Snakebites for me and the gorgeous lady!"

His British accent is so alarmingly spot-on it almost throws me.

Immediately our eyes scan the room for exits, cameras, storage facilities et all, potential casualties should things go south, before finally resting on the woman herself, holding out behind the bar.

She's kind of rough-looking, obviously playing down her appearance. The sleeves of her faded denim shirt rolled way past her elbows, a dirty chequered-patterned hand-towel slung over her right shoulder, strands of coal-black hair curtaining her smoothly textured, exotic olive-skinned face. How many hearts have you broken in your lifetime?

The bar itself is kind of how I expected it, low-key in every way. Furnished with natural wood ornaments that exude that typical 'worn' look associated with the rural parts of the island. A giant propeller fan dominates the entire ceiling area, which upon closer inspection, looks suspiciously like a real propellor hacked from the wing of an actual aeroplane. Yet, for all its spinning, the room still manages to be a fair few degrees too hot. Not that I'm complaining.

Not much action in the way of customers, either. I count five people dotted around, probably locals by the clothes they're wearing, including a drunk at the bar, who's humming himself a medley of melodies. Badly, at that.

As we approach the bar, Nikita catches my eye for the briefest of moments and I almost fall out of character. It's like for that split second she was somehow able to see right through our ruse. But she quickly resumes pouring a drink for her customer and we continue to laugh playfully as we pull up a stool.

"Oi, did you 'ear me?" repeats Hunt. "I'll have 2 snakebites, one for me and one for the lady."

"Sorry, sir, we don't serve British beer here." she replies politely.

"For a second there I thought you were about to say you don't serve the British!" laughs Hunt. "Give us two of whatever you can recommend, then!"

She nods in agreement, and calmly pours us both a drink.

"Where about in the UK are you folks from?" she asks, with a warm smile.

"I'm from a small town in Kent." replies Hunt. "This lovely lady... well, I've no idea! Ha!We've only just met! But who knows, the day is still young, right darling?"

He jokingly slaps my behind, and I fight every urge to remove his teeth.

"Easy tiger, or I'll have you skinned and turned into a rug." I grimace through gritted teeth, but he simply laughs it off.

"Kent, huh? Well then you're probably familiar with our branch over in Whitfield, near the Whitfield Interchange?" asks Nikita.

"Familiar? Honey, I practically have a spot reserved for me, right up by the bar!"

"Really?" she smiles to herself, calmly reaching beneath the counter... only to suddenly pull out a 12-gauge shotgun, locked, loaded and aimed squarely at Hunt's head.

"Tell you what," she says. "How about we play a game of 'Truth or Dare' instead? I dare you not to tell me the truth about who you are and why you're here!"

"Whoa, okay now, calm down." shouts Hunt, holding out his hands. "Damn it, it was the whole 'bar in Whitfield' question, wasn't it?"

Seizing an opportunity I immediately take out my own weapon and point it at Nikita.

"Okay, Nikki... can I call you 'Nikki'? Why don't we all calm down and take a minute or two to breath?" I suggest.

"'Calm down'?" she replies. "You pull a gun on me in my own bar, call me by my first name and ask me to 'calm down'? Bitch, are you crazy?"

"Did she just call me a bitch?"

"Holly, stand down!" orders Hunt. "I have the situation under control."

"Are you really that naive?" asks Nikita. "Or just plain stupid. I've been onto your little band of merry men ever since your corn-riddled feet touched the sand!"

"She's bluffing." shouts Hunt. "I don't have any corns."

Suddenly, the drunk at the bar she was serving only moments ago, whips out a Glock 26 9mm and aims it directly at me. And not only him, but the four other 'locals' dotted around the premise too. She's good, alright.

"Okay, wait! Look, we just want to talk, alright?" reaffirms Hunt, understandably less than his usual cool and calm self.

"Well, that's the thing about 'wanting to talk'," she begins, "It never really pans out unless you got someone at the other end of the conversation who wants to listen!"

"Shadow Walker!"

The loud voice hails from behind us, towards the entrance, as our eyes all turn to witness... Q?

"He helped us to locate you." he continues. "Well, Indirectly, at least. Of course, you probably know him as Seymour Birkhoff, Lionel Pellar... or whichever name he was going by when you guys were... you know, taking down division."

Well, the fact we're all still alive proves he's captured her attention, if nothing else.

"Birkhoff told me you kidnapped him once, back in the early days of your escape. You revealed to him what you were planing to do. Take down Division, single-handedly. He said, he told you you were insane for going at them alone. And you replied that you were not alone. No-one else heard the conversation...! He... said that if I... mention it, you might-"

"Who are you?" she asks, curiously.

"Q, mam." he replies. "Actually, it's a real pleasure to finally make your acquaintance! I've heard some... frankly unbelievable things about you. That's why we're here, you see, we could... really do with your help right now!"

To be continued...


	34. File 34: The Asset

**FILE HB007/034: The Asset**

"_Double-tech'_?"

The way she repeats it does little to hide her obvious amusement at the sound of it.

"It's what the boys over at IMF are calling it." explains Q. "Personally I would gone with something a little more... catchy, say; '_Duplication-augmentation_'? ...Anyone?"

"Gee, where were you guys when we were trying to name Oscar?" asks Nikita.

"Who's Oscar?" enquires Hunt.

We're hauled up in Nikita's bar on a remote island in the mid-pacific. A bar she has kindly closed for business, to allow us to focus on... well, business. Having just brought our elusive asset up to speed on current events, in addition to our '_still in formation_' plan on how we hope to deal with it, we'll now be relying on her well-documented expertise in the matter to help us teach our ultimate objective.

"So, your Hunt's boy?" she comments, gazing across at his face. "Yeah, that makes sense! Although I take it those are your mother's baby browns?"

"Mrs Bishop, if we could... focus on the matter...?" he responds, more icier than usual. Understandable, I guess, giving what happened to her.

"Alright." she begins. "If your really planing on taking out all of the doubles in one location at the same time, you'll need a reason for them to all be there. Say, the upcoming UN summit being held at a hotel in London this weekend? It's as good an opportunity as any?"

"Representatives from every major intelligence agency will be present." adds one of Nikita's men.

"Perfect." agrees Hunt. "We'll cross reference the missing 12 agents with the guest list. Hopefully we'll have a full house!"

"Perfect? Sure, perfectly insane!" comments Q. "Who's to say The Hand isn't already planing a strike of their own, at that very event? There are too many variables to this... too many moving parts...!"

"I disagree. An attack like that'd be too obvious, too easy. Doesn't match their MO." argues Hunt. "This is the best window of opportunity afforded us, given our timescale. We miss this, we may as well call it a day and pour ourselves another round!"

"Holly, what do you say?" Q asks, flipping the focus onto me.

He's angling for my support to back his corner. Only, I'm still not 100% convinced he's who he appears to be. If he was one of the doubles and The Hand was planning on hitting the summit, he'd want there to be as less heat as possible surrounding it. But what if I'm wrong?

"Holly? Your... James's daughter?" asks Nikita, with a curious fondness in her eye.

"I am. And I'm with Hunt. I say we... use this opportunity to hit em! We go hard, or we go home."

"Great!" says Q, disappointedly. "That's... yeah... great."

"Nikita, what can you tell us about the shop that'll provide us with a clue as to where the 12 agents are being held? How they operate? Connections?"

"Not much. Back when Division was under Percy's command, The Hand would commission it to do all their dirty field work, tying up all their loose ends, eliminating those who'd pose a threat to their position of power. In response, The Shop would supply Division with all the tech support they needed. It was later discovered that most of the Shop's funding was provided, in secret, by a company called; Paper House Limited."

"As in the Dorian Grey-owned computer giant?" asks Q. "Bloody heck, the guy's got more connections than Kevin Bacon!"

"That bridge has... already been burned." I inform her.

"Yeah, I heard." she replies. "Took a bullet between the eyes before swallowing his own pet snake!"

"Okay, so what other angles can we work?" asks Hunt.

"I have an old source that may be able to help." suggests Nikita. "He may be able to provide us a list of possible names? Finding him, however, may prove a tad difficult."

"Leave that to me." adds Q. "All I need is a list of key essentials; height, name, aliases... then I'll take that information and create an algorithm that'd map out a location trajectory that will..."

"Does he come with an 'off' switch?" Interrupts Hunt.

"Okay, meanwhile, let's think 'location'!" suggests Nikita. "They'd need to operate from within some sort of lab, maybe an abandoned warehouse, hospital... large enough to house a lot of heavy equipment. Only, it could be in any number of locations or countries."

"Sounds straight forward enough... just so long as you can get us those names." proposes Hunt. "We find the scientist, we pinpoint a location, we'll have our agents."

"kānaka?" she calls out to the guy who earlier was pretending to be drunk.

"A'ole pilikia!" he replies and exits the room, presumably to obtain said list.

"I'll start making some phone calls of my own, try and narrow down a list of possible locations." suggests Hunt, as he heads off into a corner.

"Hey, Nikita..." I whisper. "Don't happen to have any pain killers lying around, do you? Old gunshot wound."

"Sure, got some out back. Call me Niki." she smiles, as the two of us exit through the door behind the bar.

"The Magic Kitchen. It's interesting name for a bar." I say.

"It's an old movie. Sentimental value. Of course, Michael was against it from the start."

"Speaking of, where is he?"

"London. Attending a... 'private' matter."

She hands me the pills and a glass of water, then looks at me, tilting her head slightly to one side.

"Funny... never saw it before... Now it's kinda obvious."

"What was he... like?" I ask

"'Was'?"

"Is. He's still alive. At least, I think he is. Hope he is. To be honest I find it easier not to think about it. I meant what was he like to work with?"

"Driven. Without question, the most driven out of all of us. Sure, we each had an honourable reason for signing on to do what we do, be it revenge, a sense of worth... but for him it was always a sense of duty. Selfless duty. Know how difficult it is to find someone like that? And who's on our side?"

Of course. Every time I look in the mirror and I'm faced with my own shortcomings. It's a legacy I've no way of living up to.

"Niki, we could really do with your help... your expertise... we're kind of a little out-numbered out there."

"I... can't. Michael and I... there's simply too much to lose. What with the 3 of us now..."

"Oscar. He's your son, isn't he? You're pregnant... congratulations."

"Probably think we're crazy bringing another life into the middle of this, right?" she asks.

"No, actually I don't. In fact, your son is the reason why we do what we do. To make this world safer... for them. Just, not convinced I'm up to the task anymore."

I don't notice it myself, but she does. A single stream of water running down the side of my face. I'm getting emotional. Need to reign it in, remain focused. Can't afford to be weak, not at a time like this? But too much has built up over too short a time. Guess it had to go somewhere, right?

"Hey, its okay." she tells me, giving me a much needed hug. "Think I haven't shed a few in my time?"

"I'm sorry. This isn't... the normal me." I whimper, voice quivering like an idiot.

"But it's the real you. Don't ever be ashamed of it. It's part of what makes you different. And it's what will help you make the difference out there. God knows it helped me."

I've no idea who my birth mother is. Having abandoned me at an age I arguably needed her the most, I made a stern promise to myself never to try and find out. Never to think about her, if shes still alive, what shes doing,

So wish I could spend more time with this woman. I feel like there's a wealth of knowledge she could share with me about this whole spy gig. Heck, about being a woman. Period.

"Besides, If even a fraction of what I've heard about 'Holly Marie Bond' is true, you won't be needing me. Outside of that, you have my GPS coordinates. Drop by anytime."

She smiles, then leads me back outside to rejoin the others.

I see Hunt in the corner having a rant down his phone, no doubt to one of his many off-book contacts. Meanwhile Q and the ships captain, Alfonso, seem to be taking his earlier suggestion a little too literally, taking part in an impromptu tequila drinking contest along with Nikita's men.

"It was a figure of speech, nerd." I comment, rolling my, thankfully now dry, eyes.

I hear Nikita chuckle to herself behind me. Was it because I called him 'nerd' or...?

Meanwhile, Hunt finally manages to separate himself from his phone long enough to take centre stage and provide us with an update.

"Alright people, listen up! I've managed to secure ready-to-go transportation that'll take us where we need to be. Once we have a confirmed location we'll rendezvous with the rest of the team and make our-"

"Wait, team? What team?" I ask.

But he simply smiles back at me before shouting. "Let's roll out, people!" giving Nikita a sly nod of gratitude before exiting through the front door.

"Hurly and kānaka will see you off the island quickly and safely." she explains. "Be safe."

As Q passes me en route to following the others out the door, he whispers in my ear;

"Ever get the feeling you and I are just plus-ones at Hunt's private IMF party?"

All I can do is shrug at his comment. I mean, he has a point. This is becoming increasingly more of an IMF operation than anything else. Does it mean Q and I are expendable? How long before they wont be needing us at all? And what'll that translate into when the time comes?

As I say my goodbye to Nikita, one small curios, and admittedly vain, matter lingers at the back of my mind.

"By the way, I never asked you... back when you mentioned you'd heard all those... 'things' about me... from what source?"

"Don't you know?" she replies, her eyes narrowing almost scornfully. "Your father, silly. We exchange intel between us, from time to time... and yet your name always manages to somehow enter into the conversation. He's extremely proud of you. He's just... not at that point where he finds it easy to convey it."

She smiles and gives me a final hug before closing the door as I turn to leave. Now, somehow that much closer to who I need to be, than when I'd first arrived.

To be continued...


	35. File 35: The Assembly

BOND 35

The Assembly

We're airborne, inside the hull of a converted Lockheed C-141 Starlifter. A retired aircraft designed back in 1960 and first piloted in 1963. It was initially concieved as a replacement to the slower piston-engined cargo planes of that era. Now it serves us as an air-based hub for our tactical operations. Not quite sure how Hunt was able to commandeer the thing in the first place, but then that's 'Mr Impossible', for you.

Speaking of 'the man', he's about to take the floor to introduce Q and I to his 'extended' ops team, an assorted bunch if ever I saw one.

"We now have a confirmed location of where the captives are being held. Its an old abandoned Nazi railway station located in the Pyrenees mountains. Once we're closer we'll be able to provide more of an idea as to the state of play, but for now it appears at least eight undisclosed agents are present, leaving the whereabouts of a further four agents unaccounted for. Best case scenario, the four are being held at an offsite location somewhere. Worst case... well..."

"They're dead." interrupts the distinguished looking guy in the army fatigues, as we all turn to look at him.

"What?" he continues, "You were all thinking it?"

"Holly, Q, I'd like to introduce the team that will be aiding us in executing the last two stages of our plan. First up, 'Sebastian Tombs'. Former SAS, he's done stretches in Iraq, Angola, and several parts of the world you wouldn't wanna be buried in. His rather unique expertise on the ground will prove itself invaluable once we've hit the ground."

"Naturally, when I say they may be dead, I'm obviously hoping they're still alive." he says apologetically.

He's a fellow Brit. Which I find oddly comforting. Although Hunt could have at least chosen someone marginally less... well, 'British'. This guy wouldn't look out of place selling umbrellas outside Covent Garden station during Summer.

"Next up we have; Devon Woodcomb. Graduate from med school, specializing in cardiology. Operated as a cardiovascular surgeon at Westside Medical Centre before later being enlisted by the CIA through 'rather bizarre' means."

"Yes sir, pretty awesome it was too!" jokes the tall, blonde, muscular... and very very married surgeon-Damn it! But then maybe the wedding band's part of his cover?

"Mr Woodcomb here's purely on loan. He'll be on hand to deal with all aspects of the captives health, as and when needed, as we have no idea what condition our people will be in when we find them."

I could always fake an injury, I guess.

"Next, we have Julian Sark'. Jack of all trades and master of every damn one of em!Expert in logistics and tactical espionage. He'll be formulating the rescue-op's finer details."

"Have a pen and notepad ready." grunts the decidedly short operative, "I'm not one to repeat myself."

"Lastly, we have 'Matt Ferrell'..."

"That's, double T, double R, double L, by the way..." quips the quirky-looking guy with mousy-brown mop hair.

"Okay. Thanks!" deadpans Q, glancing over at me with a 'really?' expression on his face.

"Matt'll be providing additional tech support-." explains Hunt, leading me to interrupt.

"Why? We already have an adequate tech-head."

"'Adequate', gee, thanks H." comments Q.

"Well, you know what they always say," replies Hunt, "Two tech-heads are better than one!'"

"I don't know, Hunt, I'm not convinced." replies Q, mockingly stroking his chin. "Does he have, like, a resume he could email me or something... maybe a website I can access, you know, just to-"

"You're 'Q', right?" asks Matt, stepping forward. "Yeah, heard a lotta 'bout you. Unfortunately, it was all bad! Now being as it's a long way from 'Great Britain', I'll put your generally awkward and reserved nature down to an extreme case of home sickness. Or maybe you just don't-like-flying. Period!"

"Do you want to get to the point?" asks Q, cooly.

"Point is, dude, back in 2007 I was instrumental in aiding the U.S. Government in stopping a cyber terrorist attack on Washington D.C, led by a man named Thomas Gabriel. You may have read about it? So if anything, I'd say I was a tad overqualified for this particular little shindig! But thanks for your concern, all the same."

"2007. Wow! That is impressive." responds Q with a slow-clap. "That's all of, what, 8 years ago? Say, didn't MIMS hold the No. 1 spot for two weeks in March that year, with the hit single 'This Is Why I'm Hot'?"

"Who's 'MIMS'" asks Devon.

"Exactly." replies Q, adding 'wittiest guy in the room' to his list of accolades.

So witty, in fact, I clock a shift in the weight of Matt's stance. The kind of shift you normally make just before you take a swing at somebody. But before I can react, Hunt steps back in.

"Okay, let's not lose track of what's at stake here, people. Keep your ego's in check, or you check yourselves out of the mission altogether, it's your call. Full mission debrief in 15. Dismissed."

Hunt's running this like a military op now. It's like his whole persona's slowly evolved into R. Lee Ermey over the last couple of days. We're obviously approaching the finishing line and its adversely affecting each of us on a different level. But it still doesn't excuse how he's treated Q, so I pull him aside.

"Hunt, can I talk to you for a second?"

"Sure, what's up, Holly?"

"You've made it pretty clear that you and you alone are the captain of this ship. Almost to the point of me wondering wether-"

"Okay stop." he rests both hands on my shoulders, looks me dead in the eyes. "This is my operation, in that I'm using my resources to facilitate it's continual development. But Holly, make no mistake, you are an essential part of what's happening here and crucial to the success of our plan as we head into the final act. If I've given you any reason for thinking otherwise, it's purely-"

"Actually, it's Q who I'm concerned with..."

"Q? Well then it's you and me both. Holly, your guy hasn't been on point since Istanbul. Now, I don't know what it is that's putting him way off his A-game, but I can't afford to be carrying him this close to the end. Bottom line, one more strike and he'll find himself on the bench. Permanently. I'm sorry."

He walks off leaving me a lot to think about. Q has been off his game since Turkey. First, I thought it was mission lag from his lack of field experience. But it's something else... almost as if he was... someone else.

I look over and catch the boy genius himself furiously tapping away at his tablet. As he clocks me approaching him, he suspiciously swipes whatever was on the screen away.

"Hey, what you up to?" I ask

"I... what? Nothing. Just... anyway, what were... you and Hunt discussing? Seemed... cosy."

"The mission. Seems to be growing exponentially with every passing day... 'exponentially'? ...It was a geek reference, Q. ...Are you... okay?"

"Gee, I don't know, Holly, am I expected to be? This whole 'Attack the summit' plan sucks harder than an industrialised DC65 Dyson with twin horse powered turbines! And then to have my integrity publicly questioned on top of it all, by that... Imbecile?"

"Okay, kinda taking it a bit personally, aren't you?"

"Well that's easy for you to say, Holly, your not the one being 'personally' attacked! But then this is Hunt's op, so I guess your cool with anything that comes out of the grining idiots mouth!"

"What the heck is that supposed to mean?" I ask.

"It means... It means I'm busy, Holly. Ive got things to do, numbers to crunch, yada-yada-yads... So if you're done catching up...?"

As he abruptly turns to wander over to the other side of hull to continue whatever it was he was actually doing, all I can do is look on in wonder. Did that really just happen? Am I reading too much into this? Or simply not enough?

Suddenly I recall what Hunt told me back when we initially met in Istanbul. About how The Hand operates from within the shadows of society whilst simultaneously existing in plain sight of it all. As 'that feeling' slowly creeps back into my mind, I begin to slowly piece together every suspect moment relating to him from Moscow to this very moment. The conclusion of which doesn't bode well, for either of us.

To be continued...


	36. File 36: The Rescue

BOND 36

The Rescue

The distance is just over 2 kilometres. Tricky at the best of times, but with the added wind pressure provided by the briskly cold weather, nigh on impossible. But Hunt's new wingman, the enigmatically-named 'Sebastian Tombs' makes light work of the task, picking off the last three guards stationed on the building's roof from the top of a distant tree with only two shots. Who is this guy?

We're at an abandoned railway station somewhere in the Pyrenees mountains. Hunt, Sark, Matt and myself are stationed just behind a nearby wall behind the back entrance waiting patiently for the coast to be cleared, whilst Q and Devon remain back at the rendezvous point inside an armoured RV with the engine running.

Coast now clear we proceed towards the side entrance to make our way in undetected. I'd half expected such an operation of theirs to be heavily guarded. But then I'm guessing they fully expected not to be discovered in the first place!

It takes Matt mere seconds to decode the security lock on the door, connecting what looks like an Xbox controller to its circuitboard. Pretty impressive stuff.

"Okay, we're in!" he says, holding the door open as we bundle past. "Sure hope your 'boy genius' has the security cameras locked, Holly. Especially after wimping out on being part of the ground team?"

|"_Cameras are already running the loop, chump. Try focusing on what's ahead of you... don't want to risk rupturing a brain cell or two before the jobs even completed. Bedsides, I'm more use out here with a birds eye, than inside with a worms view._" | quotes a disgruntled Q.

"Hold up, did he just call me a worm?" asks Matt, much to Hunt's chagrin.

"Seriously you two...?"

A large set of stone steps greet us, spiralling down towards a long dark corridor, the lights of which flicker continue to flicker on and off.

A handful of personnel, suddenly appearing from various side doors and are quickly dispatched with by Sark, proving himself considerably adept at using a set of Karambits, lethally curved combat knives, to silently take down in seconds.

Eventually we find ourselves at junction leading off into two directions. Hunt pulls out a PDA specially configured to track the heat signatures of the eight remaining captives and signals Sark and Matt to take the second pathway.

"Bond and I will follow the thermal trail towards the holding cell. Let's keep the frequency open, people. Remember, once you've located the control room, whatever cannot be salvaged must be destroyed. Feel free to utilise whatever extreme measures you deem necessary along the way. Good luck."

But we'll need more than luck to guarantee success with these type of odds. According to Hunt's Intel there were 12 initial agents from around the world captured and replaced with members of The Hand's criminal empire. Eight of those are believed to be stationed at this facility, leaving four unaccounted for. What if M was one of those four? There's been no mention of formatting a second search. And Q, what if he's-

"Bond, behind you!"

Hunt forcefully pushes me aside before firing two into a patrolling guard behind me, but not before taking a bullet himself in the shoulder. Damn it! Real sloppy Holly. Head's not in the game. Need to re-focus. Prioritise my thoughts with the task ahead, locating and rescuing the eight. Whoever they turn out to be.

"You... ok?" I ask him, sheepishly. It's a pretty dumb question given the wound he's now nursing on my behalf, but guilt compels me to say at least something.

"Am I alright? Was kinda wondering that about you!" he snaps back. "Picked a heck of a time to be sleeping on the job, Holly. I'm thinking maybe I picked the short straw pairing up with you!"

I'm stunned. Speechless. Never seen him like this before.

"Just pulling your chain!" he suddenly smiles, "It's a scratch. Nothing a few painkillers couldn't fix, right? Besides, you can dream on if you think you'll be getting rid of me that easy!"

He's hurt. But prides holding his tongue. But before I can respond, two more guards suddenly appear from seemingly nowhere. Immediately, I slide along the ground towards them to sweep one of off his feet so hard, his head almost cracks open as it impacts the floor.

Hunt follows up with the second, leaping in the air to kick his weapon aside, before taking him down with a swift spinning kick to the face. The angle at which his head violently shifts tells me he wont be getting back up. Ever. I catch his falling weapon and flip back onto my feet like an olympic gymnast.

"Don't say I never give you anything." he jokes.

"Gee, thanks daddy!" I quip. And rather awkwardly, too. Seemed funnier in my head. "How far are we from the location?" I ask, flipping the conversation.

"Just a few kilometres ahead. B-team, what's your status?"

|"_Status? For one, slightly peeved at being called that!" replies Matt, "Other than that we've just hit pay-dirt. Just extracted the mother of all motherboards from their central computer. Guessing it'll have a level 6 encryption so may take an extra... what, 12 seconds to crack?_"|

"Well if your done massaging your ego, maybe you can get round to setting up the detonations?"

|"_Sark's already got it covered. Genius, out._"|

"Explosives? W-wait... what if the missing four are still on the premises? What if..."

"'What if's' are hardly conclusive enough to risk jeopardising a mission. You know that."

"Ok, I count three guards and one lab coat."

"Eight friendlies, each with a hood over their head."

"Flash grenades'll do the trick. On three. One, two..."

"Three!"

Goggles on, we toss the grenades through a crack in the door and watch the 'fireworks' light up the room. Then we storm in for a clean sweep. Three head shots for the guards and a gut wound for the doctor, to keep alive long enough for questioning.

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

Immediately I rush over to them and begin frantically whipping off their hoods one by one. But each reveal presents me with a face I do not know. Except for the last, who is revealed to be none other than The Director of IA himself, Richard Harper.

"Holly!" he gasps.

"You know who I am, sir?"

"Yes of course, you're a sight for very sore eyes! Get me outta here!"

"There were four others! M was one of them. And maybe... someone else. Have you any idea where they are?"

None. I've never even seen these other seven people before. How many of us in total are there?

"Twelve. At least according to our intel. But that could be-the wounded doctor, he was just there a minute ago! Hunt, I'm after the rodent!"

"Negative. Not part of the-HOLLY!"

Sorry Hunt, but I need to find answers and they're sure as anything not coming to me! Hopefully, as long as I'm still in the building Hunt wont blow the damn thing to kingdom come.

The blood trail leads me to an office. Inside I can near the wounded doctor at his desk making a call to an unknown source. He's speaking German, requesting to be put through to someone called 'Davian'. Only Davian I know died back in '06 at the hands of Hunt's father.

["**Comrade, please put the phone down and step away**!"] I tell him.

["**Too late, Miss Bond**."] he tells, slowly lowering the phone. ["**You cannot stop the coming storm!**"]

He quickly takes out a hidden handgun from beneath the desk and turns it on himself before I can so much as yell 'stop!', decorating the office wall with his mind.

I cautiously approach the open laptop at his desk, hoping to maybe find some information on the whereabouts of the other four.

|"_Holly, get that firm butt of yours out of there now! We've rendezvoused with B-Team and are making our way outside. Copy_."|

"Okay, I read you, Hunt. I'm just... just...!"

I'm staring towards the flickering laptop screen at an image of M. The word 'Assigned' is emblazoned across his image in red. Slowly I hit the 'tab' key and begin cascading between every agent's image. After the final photo of Harper flashes across the screen, my heart begins to race.

|"_Holly, I don't hear any heavy breathing? Where you at?_"|

I hit the 'tab' key, one more time and my heart sinks.

It's Q's face. And the word "Assigned" might as well have been written in blood.

|" _Damnit, **HOLLY**!_"|

"Alright, I'm coming!"

I race back along the corridors, mercilessly putting a bullet in every face I don't recognise. The rage boiling inside of me, it's uncontainable. Its destructive. If something has happened to him, the real him, I'll lay waste to all who'd dare stand between me and the person(s) responsible.

Finally, I'm outside. As I rapidly make my way across the terrain towards the rendezvous point, a dozen or so armed men make their way out of the building to pursue me, raining bullets in my direction. One by one they emerge, and one by one they fall, courtesy of Tombs handy sniper-work once again at play. But I'm virtually oblivious to it. Like a furnace of vengeance burning with rage . And I will get answers.

"BLOW THE DAMN THING ALREADY!" I yell, and a huge eruption of heat and sound scorches the hairs on my neck, as the entire facility explodes in flames. And I keep running. Eyes burning with rage.

Finally I reach the truck to see Hunt and Tombs waiting outside for me.

"Where's Q?" I ask, wasting no time.

"Damn it, wish I could tell you! Little runt slipped away amongst all the commotion. At first the guys thought he went to use the john, but he never came back! I warned you about him, Holly... we cannot afford to wait-"

"I'll get him!" I say.

"Sorry, no can do! Like I said-"

"Damn it, Hunt...!" I pull him towards me and whisper. "Q's been compromised. Now, I need to end this. So give me 60 seconds and keep the engine running!"

Hunt gives me a disgruntled nod, dismissing Tombs rants of disapproval as I quickly head off in the direction of some nearby tress.

I take out my weapon. My heart rate is beaten so fast I cant even see straight. My hands, gripping the handle so tightly a numbness begins to sink in all the way up to my elbows. Do I question him, this 'imposter'? What'll he have to say that'd stay his execution? Probably beg for his life, spinning some yarn about possessing information I may find useful.

It wont work. It's too late for discussions.

"Holly."

I spin around rapidly, finger on the hair-trigger, heart pounding.

"I'm so stupid!" I tell him. "I should have known... all the signals where there but I chose to ignore them. I'm such a... _blonde_. You sabotaged my zipline in Tokyo, triggered the alarm in the server-room, and recently alerted The Shop that we were coming... thats why they moved M and the real you to another location, isn't it?"

He's not responding. Just standing there like a... scared wimpy idiot. Clutching that damn tablet of his close to his chest like it was a pacemaker. That... damn... tablet...!

"Do... do... what you must." he tells me, as he closes his eyes.

I hesitate for a second... then empty my entire clip at him until there's nothing coming out but air. A single tear streams down the side of my face as I turn to make my way back towards the others.

Now there's only Hunt waiting outside of the truck for me. He rests his hand on my shoulder, wiping away my tear before telling me;

"I'm sorry. You... forgot to take your com link out. I... heard everything. Don't worry, we'll find him. I promise, when this is over we _**will**_ find him!"

I say nothing back because there's nothing left to be said.

I silently get into the truck as we drive back towards the plane.

To be continued...

ＵＰＤＡＴＥ / ＦＲＩＤＡＹ 20ＴＨ ＮＯＶ


	37. File 37: The Objective

BOND 37

**THE OBJECTIVE**

I can hear them, talking about me in whispers. They think I'm a liability. A threat to the integrity of the mission. They think I won't be able to perform. That I appear... _distracted?_

Truth is I have never been more certain of what I must now do. Never been more clear.

We're on a Class 92 dual-voltage electric locomotive, travelling between France and Great Britain via the Channel Tunnel. Stationed inside a specially kitted out carriage, complete with every bell and whistle a world class spy could imagine and then some, we're making our way to London for one final attempt at stopping The Hand from executing their endgame.

**Devon 'The Medic' Woodcomb** was since released from his medical duties, having given the all-clear to the rescued party following a thorough, albeit robust, physical and mental health assessment.

Enigmatic wetworks specialist and sniper supreme; **Sebastian Tombs**, remains his usual coy self. Finding the furthest corner of the carriage to inhabit with no-one but his own shadow for company.

Meanwhile Matt, being the only remaining tech guy in the current line up, subsequently bumping him up to 'numero uno', is all the more eager to share his credentials with any of the party willing to listen. Primarily the French female intelligence agent he's currently chewing the ear off of.

"Wait, do you even know what a 'fire sale' is?" he asks, mid-way through an exhaustive monologue.

"Of course." she replies. "It happens once a year around November 5th, no?"

Meanwhile Sark and Hunt appear tighter than ever, going over the finer details of our final mission's schematics. Hunt's spent the better part of the journey assuring and re-assuring me our attention will turn to locating the whereabouts of the _real_ Q, just as soon as the London assignment is over.

As for our group of eight, It's been only two days since their rescue was successfully executed, and yet already they appear eagerly keen for a little payback.

"Okay everyone, listen up!" shouts Hunt. "Game time's in two and a half hours, and there's a lot of ground to be covered. Remember above all this is a 'surgical operation', meaning precision is of absolutely paramount. Sloppiness will cost lives."

"Yeah, yeah, 'Zero casualties', we get it, already. You said you had some kind of a '_plan_'? What is it?"

"Yeah, I've got a family to get back to."

"We all have families to get back to!"

Isn't looking good for Hunt. He needs to wrap up his 'presentation' and quickly.

"There's a summit between key UN members being held today at the Isambard Hotel in London." he explains. "The objective of which is to discuss the proposal of a global surveillance and intelligence co-operation initiative between nine of the world's key goverments."

"Yes, I know. I was scheduled to attend." responds the Director of IA, Richard Harper.

"Out intel informs us representatives of each of your intelligence organisations will be present." explains Hunt. "More importantly, **_your_** representations from each of those organisations. This affords us a perfect opportunity to take them down in one single strike."

"Alright, now we're talking!" replies a CIA agent, excitedly. "Payback's a bitch, and she's gonna scream my name!"

"How very 'poetic' of you." comments Sark with a sly eye-roll, as Hunt continues.

"We'll be posing as members of Four Seasons Catering Services, commissioned to provide the event's-"

"Whoa, what is this, MasterChef? Have you tasted my cooking?" jokes another agent.

"The food'll be pre-cooked," responds Sark, wryly, "So no need to worry about having to brush up on your 'culinary' skills."

After a brief giggle among the group, Hunt continues once more.

"This will allow us full access to the venue, pre-event, to set up various station points throughout, for what we're calling; **Project: Masked Ball**."

"Ah, Mr Hunt? **Eva Vittoria**, French Intelligence. Sorry to be stating the obvious, but won't we be recognised? It's not like we can waltz into the middle of an international gathering of world intelligence **_unnoticed_**?"

"As the project title implies, we will each be issued high-tech polymer masks that will disguise our real identities, allowing us all to move freely throughout the event. Now, I've handpicked a small team of field operatives who'll be stationed within the hotel's kitchen purely as a support measure in case things go south. Which, of course, they shouldn't."

"All good and well, but I'm still not hearing much in way of a _plan_?" comments Harper.

"Of course. At precisely 19:21, 9 minutes prior to dinner being served, a 60-second power cut will be triggered. During which, each of you, positioned within direct vicinity of your double, will proceed to take them out with one of these."

He holds up a small pen-like object, looking over to tech-man Matt to elaborate.

"I call it; '**The Penaliser**'." he says proudly. "A small device, completely undetectable by scanners. It fires a single round carrying a highly evolved toxin derived from Ketamine. The effects aren't permanent but guarantee mass paralysis within the body's muscles within seconds... _along with the odd trippy moment or two_. Hey, I had to test it out, okay?"

"You want us to attack them with **_that_** thing? in the dark?" asks another.

"**Graphene Contact Lenses!**" replies Matt, now holding up what I'm guessing is an example. "Specially designed to register the entire _infrared spectrum_ as well as visible and ultraviolet light. Err... that's... "_Let's you see in the dark_', in layman terms."

"Seconds prior to our attack, a detailed dossier will be sent to every electronic device of every real agent on location, notifying them of the truth and exposing The Hand's true agenda." adds Sark, visably restless.

"Well, pardon my French, but it's a bat-shit crazy plan!" comments Harper. "There's so many opportunities for error, y'all should be issuing life insurance policies!"

"Well, it's _**my**_ plan!" replies Hunt, sternly. "So unless you can come up with one _better_ within the next... say... 9 or so hours? I suggest we stick to it!"

"Right, 'Go bold, or go home'!" comments Matt. "Or... something... like that."

"Now Harper, sir," continues Hunt. "being the most '**senior**' member present amongst us, you'll be stationed along with Matt in a mobile tech-unit offsite, offering vital all-eyes support. At which point you will both-"

"**_The heck I will, Hunt!_**" screams Harper in response. "What, because I'm old? I am the director of International Affairs and have served as ambassador for public relations between more senior members of Intelligence than you've had hot or cold dinners!"

"I'm aware of your... impressive list of credentials, sir. I only-"

"Good! Cause you should _also_ be aware that I was out serving our great nation on the very frontline of war, _long_ before you were even a stain on your daddy's mattress! '_Benching_' me is not only a ridiculous notion, son, but an insult to every drop of blood, sweat and tears I have ever shed along with those whom I have had the honour of serving alongside of!"

"I... meant you no _disrespect_, Director. I was merely-."

"I... know, son. And I'm sorry I got so... _rilled up_. The idea of _another man_ in my house?With my _wife_ and-?"

"That man is **dead**." confirms Sark. "As far as reports go your double was assassinated somewhere in Moscow before he could ever be activated. Which was probably around the time you were kidnapped. Which means, as far as the world is concerned you're... _also_ dead. Sorry. Your wife Included."

"Ah, when he says 'your wife', he was referring to her _thinking your dead._.. not... her _herself_ being **assassinated**... out in... Moscow... I'll shut up now." mumbles Matt.

The news hits Harper hard, leaving him visibly struggling to come to terms with which is worse; hearing his wife of some twenty-odd years had to endure such an ordeal as attending her husband's funeral? Or that he _wasn't_ there to offer her comfort when she did.

"Okay, I... look, I just... I need to make a phone call, let her know I'm okay. I know a couple a guys in the CIA, they're trustworthy. They could get a message to-"

"That's a negative, sir." responds Hunt. "Look, our initial intel on the identity of the targeted agents came from what we thought was an airtight source; an encrypted document referred only as The Bucket List. Having personally come into contact with that file and decoded it's contents myself, it transpires that not all the names of those agents may have been listed."

He glances over towards me. He's talking about Q.

"Perhaps it was an early version?" he continues. "Or maybe The Hand were since forced to improvise for fear of having their masterplan exposed? The simple fact is, there's no way of telling how many more of our agents have been compromised."

"Alright Hunt, you made your point!" responds Harper, begrudgingly. "Still doesn't detract from the fact that this whole entire situation stinks like a skunk's fart!"

"We share your frustration, Director. Which is why we all need to stick together." adds Eva. "The only people we can trust are those who are on this carriage."

The French Intelligence lady makes her point, leaving the others to ponder it's merits. Seems to be a lot of fear and distrust going around these days. Typical of The Hand's MO.

"**Bond!"**

Huh? Did Hunt just call out my name?

"Fairly quite over there. What do you think?"

Silence governs the carriage for the first time since we all boarded, as all eyes fixate on me. But Hunt's question to me wasn't really a question at all. It was a request for my affirmation. 'Emotional adhesive' with which to hopefully prevent this entire operation from falling apart so close to the end.

I give him what he wants.

"What do I think? I think its safe to assume, due to there being no recent reports of incidences involving any of the doubles in either of the agencies involved over the last couple of days, that The Hand are still as yet unaware that their operation has been compromised.

Now, I get that we all have places we'd much rather be... and things we'd... _much rather be doing._.. but this is a rare window of opportunity. We miss this, who knows if and when the next one will come?"

To be continued...


	38. File 38: The Identity

BOND 38

**The Identity**

**16:15 pm**

Our van pulls up at the Isambard 5 star hotel. The building's a sight for sore eyes, housing some 400+ rooms, ranging from the ultimate overnight stay, right up to the penthouse of all penthouses that'll have you sinking into depression on your last nights stay.

Through the large revolving front doors, we are greeted with over-friendly staff offering greetings with every other word, backdropped by an assortment of glass and marble furnishings, with flashes of green by way of tropical fern plants punctuating the dream-like scenery throughout.

Making our way towards our allocated sub-kitchen, each wearing a face that is not our own, we make sly notes of the locations of all the security cameras, double checking they match the floor plans Matt pulled from the hotel's private database.

A quick glance back towards the entrance door reveals discreetly positioned biometric terahertz scanners interwoven into the door's frame, similar to those I encountered back in Moscow, courtesy of Hazuki Enterprises no doubt, and almost invisible to the naked eye. Or the non-observant.

The expansive lobby area itself isnt particularly busy at this time, which only serves to draw more attention to our presence from the wandering eyes of its guests seated, attempting to escape boredom, especially... the blonde in the red coat, hat and big shades. Curious.

I spot a few discreetly placed earpieces among some of the others... agents. From which I can't tell. But its ok, so long as we don't do anything out of the ordinary to draw more attention. Like, say, drop a very large stainless steel pot on the floor? Which, of course, one of the team does.

Damn it, I know these guys have only been back on their feet for two days, but really?

Immediately two of the hotel's staff magically appear to offer their assistance. Thankfully, it wasn't the pot specially lined with tungsten and lead to conceal various pieces of state-of-the-art surveillance equipment.

So far, so clumsy.

**17:00**

With all of the 'equipment' finally offloaded and set up in the kitchen thanks to all relevant hotel CCTV cameras being hacked into by Matt and now playing pre-recorded footage on a loop, we begin our prep-work.

**17:35**

The charges are placed on the relevant fuse boxes in the basement and the timers set to go 'boom' at the key moment, we assume the roles of ordinary catering staff, busily going to and fro in preparation for the big banquet meal.

**18:10**

With our own hidden cameras strategically placed, it's now the waiting game until the main players arrive. I spot Harper in the corner, stationed by a small monitor, scrutinising its screen with morbid anticipation.

"Harper."

"Bond."

"Not long till the main event. What's this meeting all about, anyway?" I ask.

"The future. Or so you'd be led to believe. A short while back a young and ambitious upstart by the name of Max Denbigh managed to bag himself the title of Director-General of the Joint Security Service. Number one on his agenda, a proposal to merge the agencies of both MI5 with MI6."

"Never happen. The two operate using polar-opposite methods, not to mention a-"

"Never say never, Bond. he's an obtrusive little brat, who's already rubbed more people up the wrong way, than your father did his entire career on the field. Denbigh's MO is all about expansion and control, and his rumoured follow up 'game-changer' is no exception to that ambitious streak"

"I'd guess, but I'd be to nervous I was right!"

"He plans to launch a new global surveillance initiative that would combine the governments of nine of the most prominent english speaking territories around the world into a singular, intelligence-gathering alliance."

"That's a lot of power for one set of eyes."

"Make that 'nine'! My advice, Bond, keep Denbigh in your line of sight. A kid that young and hungry'll trample over anyone who gets in the way of 'progress'. Especially 'old fashioned' field agents like you and your old man."

"I... wouldn't let him hear you call him that"

"Which is why I'm saying it to you." he smiles.

**18:35**

Guests arrive, Sark issues each of us with one of Matt's fancy tranquilliser toys. And yes, they're even lighter than they looked.

"Is everyone clear on where they need to be and when?" he asks.

"Sure, just as long as these floor plans computer-boy's provided us with are legit." one replies.

|"They're legit!"| confirms Matt, rather hastily through our ear pieces.

"On my signal, people, and remember 'precision'. Think... E.R. Season 8."

"I dunno... It was always Season 2 for me." mumbles another. "'Welcome Back, Carter' is like one of my all-time fa-"

The group splinter off back into the lobby and dinner hall areas to carry out their various assigned tasks. I pull Hunt aside.

"Blonde in a red coat, big sunglasses and hat. Have you seen her?" I ask.

"No. Not one of ours. Who d'ya think she is?"

"Not sure."

"Well, let's keep our eyes open." he suggests, before slinging a hand towel over one arm, taking a bottle of 1953 chardonnay in the other and heading out the door.

**19:02**

Conference room. Starters are served to the guests seated around 12 large round tables.

I spot a few familiar faces among them. M, Moneypenny, even an old friend of my dad's from the US, Felix Leiter. A CIA operative responsible for getting dad out of his fair share of tight spots over the years. Dad still owes him money from some high-stakes poker game they played back in 2006. Some mission that must have been.

That's when I spot 'her' again, the blonde in the red dress, hat and sunglasses, at the back of the room behind one of the large marble pillars. Not the most discreet colour to be seen in.

She's watching attentively. Those huge black circular baroque sunglasses obstructing any hope of a reveal as to her identity. I follow her eye line back across the room towards... former Assistant Director of the FBI Counterterrorism Division, Harold Cooper. Why?

He catches sight of her and enquires with his colleague sitting next to him. They look back towards where she was standing only to find she's now gone.

The double doors at the back of the auditorium swing close.

Immediately I make my way towards them, discreetly, as to not draw too much attention, finding myself in the hallway outside. Fire exit to my right, I hear footsteps making their way rapidly upwards and decide to follow.

Top of the stairwell I enter through another door to find myself outside the control booth that looks down over the auditorium where the guests are seated.

Cautiously, I enter the room and find her standing with her back towards me looking through the large glass panel on the wall. On the floor at her feet, two unconscious technicians lie motionless, but still breathing, from what I can hear.

And seated to her immediate left...?

"Hunt. What's-?"

"Ah, Holly, just in time for the main event. Remember when I told you how important your involvement was to the execution of my plan? Well, there's good news and there's bad news. Actually, to be honest, it's all bad. At least, where you're concerned."

"What's... going on?"

"Now, I liked you Holly. True fact! To be honest, Ive grown quite attached to you over the short time we've been working together. And whilst, yes, there's a part of me that pains to see you 'go'... well...!"

He shrugs dismissively

"Impossible. You checked out. Everything about you that Q... the other Q had... wait... the other Q...!"

"'Ah yes, Q. Eliminating him without incident was always the key. But getting you to do it for me was the real challenge. And one you rose to, admirably. After all, you said it yourself, there's only a handful of people in the world can do what he does. Did. Oh, you know what I mean."

I say nothing, because there's nothing to say. I shift my stare to the woman in red, who at this point is still standing with her back to me.

"Oh, yes; 'the blonde in the red coat, hat and sunglasses'. Allow me to introduce you." he says.

And thats when 'she' turns around, lifting off her hat and discarding her eyewear with diva-like abandon. Got to admit, even I didn't see this one coming.

"Holly Marie Bond, allow me to introduce you to 'Holly Marie Bond'."

To be continued...?


	39. File 39: The Endgame

**HB007/039: The Endgame**

**19:09 pm**

"Who are you, Hunt? ...really?"

He gets up and strolls over to the large glass panel that overlooks the auditorium, peering through it in utter satisfaction, down at the various members of several of our worlds top intelligence agencies seated bellow, themselves, completely unsuspecting of what is to come their way.

"In an age where 'wearing masks' is a staple of our very society, it's a wonder any of us know the answer to that very simple question!" he comments, almost existentially.

"Take the man who rises early in the morning to go to work, ruling his company with an iron fist, relentless in his pursuit for economical growth and power. He arrives home later that evening to read his 8 yr old daughter a bedtime story of love, hope and kindness, before gently kissing her forehead goodnight. Only to then retire to his own bedroom to make wild passionate love to his longing wife. Who is to say which of these is the _real_ him?"

We're in the control booth that sits at the back above one of several large halls located within the hotel's premises, and Hunt's just finished playing his final hidden card. A blindsided reveal that wilfully exposes the true nature of the man behind the face, to be an agent of The Hand.

"That's very... poetic." I reply. "Only, with you its not that complicated, is it, Hunt?"

He remains silent. I continue.

"A wild stab, I'd say... ex-military, master tactician for hire, who... no... no, this was all too well planed out. Too methodical. Meaning it's personal. Propelled by... revenge? Some... personal loss... a father, perhaps. That's how they recruited you. And drawing from your fake cover story... of course! You're not Ethan and Linsey's illegitimate son... you're Owen Davian's, am I right?"

He takes a moment or two to register my wild claim, before flashing that toothy grin of his in agreement. Only this time, it carries a much more... darker, sinister countenance.

"'Bravo, Bond! 'Holmes' himself would have been envious of your evident powers of deduction."

"Oh, there's more;" I tell him. "The Bucket List, the infiltration plot, the bounty on my head, the rescue mission in the mountains... I'm guessing none of it was real, right?"

He glances down at his watch.

**19:12 pm**

"Actually, the Original list was." he admits. "Decades in the making, actually. It was stolen by a former employee of ours, Dorian Grey to you. He had hoped to use it as leverage against us, after his request to cut ties with our organisation was denied. Forcing us to make some... late adjustments to our plan. Ultimately, he was a loose end you helped tie up.

The 'infiltration double plot' was also real. It just... hadn't **_happened_** yet! But it's imminent. I, along with the other members of **The Syndicate** you helped 'rescue' up in the mountains, will see to that."

"The Syndicate?" I ask, interest levels peeked.

I can read it in his eyes, he's said too much. He glances back at his watch, then tells the blonde in German to '_Tell them to be ready to strike. I will give the order!_'. She taps on her earpiece and does so.

I need to buy time. I need to buy '_him_' some time.

"So your men will take out the real agents, making them out to be doubles, then pose as them and continuing to work for you from within granting the hand limitless access to all levels of clasified intel. Clever. But something still doesn't add up." I say. "Harper... Dolinski **died** wearing his face. I saw him."

"Harper was genuine. As in the one _**you**_ rescued. We needed someone with which you could _identify_ with, plus Dolinskii was discovered to be in cohesion with Grey. The fool's death was always gonna happen. Again, our sincerest gratitude."

**19:15 pm**

"And the real Harper? What's his fate?"

"By now, dead. Mr Tombs would have fulfilled his contract by eliminating him. Quite a find, that one. Kind of reminds me of me, only... posher. Now I'm afraid you'll have to-"

"Wait! Hazuki Enterprises... it was you who triggered the server room alarm alerting them to our presence. You who _sabotaged_ my zip line. All to implicate Q. Get me to mistrust him. Plant that all-important seed. I need to know!"

And I need to stall you, just a short while longer.

"Yes, yes and yes! Genius, wasn't it?" he responds "Playing on Q's affection for you to cohorce him into acting out of character? The pitfalls of jealousy... oh, don't look so surprised, Bond. Surely **you've** caught a glimpse or two of those 'longing' looks he'd sneak in, **every** time you strolled into the room?"

["**Speaking of '_time_'...?**"] comments the _other_ blonde, rather impatiently.

"And her? What's her role in all of this? Apart from serving as a cheap imitation of the real thing?"

"You mean Gerda? She will be posing as you to continue your loyal service at MI6. 'Miss Laura Fleming' I believe you're commonly know there as. Having exposed you as the individual behind the entire infiltration plot, she'll be 'adequately' rewarded. A higher level of access to MI6's more restricted intel should suffice."

**19:17 pm**

"So I die but my identity gets to live on! Small consolation, I suppose."

"But do you know what I'm exited about the most, Miss Bond? Besides collecting that hefty bounty on your head when I kill you?" she asks in an exact replica of my own voice. "_Finally getting **laid!** _Wearing this pretty little face of yours is going to open a lotta bedroom doors for me!"

Classy, real classy. I smile at her with genuine amusement, before delivering the requisite bad news;

"Well, 'fräulein', I'd recommend you enjoy the experience whilst the brief moment lasts!"

"Yeah, how's that?" she asks, cracking her knuckles with exitement.

"_Cause you're about 10 seconds away from the most embarrassing moment of your life!_"

It's a line from an old 90's movie, but it does the trick.

She comes at me, full on, with anger and a flurry of fists and feet, throwing her full weight behind every perfectly executed attack. Perfect, aside from the fact that she's leading with her shoulders, telegraphing every action, allowing me to continually sidestep out of harms way with relative ease.

Back against the wall, I lean to the side of her last punch and catch her right wrist with my left hand. A swift concerted twist in the opposite direction and she screams in pain. I follow up with a swift palm-strike to her nose and let the bone fragments travelling up into her skull do the rest.

As she drops to her knees, wide-eyed, exhaling her final breath, I call it;

"10 seconds!"

Hunt goes quite on me wearing an expression of genuine surprise, before swiftly pulling out a gun on me.

"Alright, I'll admit it, I'm impressed. Gerda was one of our top imports from Germany. Not to mention, a considerably expensive investment."

"Oops! Hope you kept your receipt." I quip.

**19:20 pm**

"That's funny! But the fact is you'll still die, Bond. Just the old fashion way." he taps his earpiece. "But not before helplessly witnessing the takeover of your worlds intelligence, first hand. _Mr Ferrell, if you would be so kind! Mr Ferrell? ...MR FARRELL?_"

Perfection.

"I heard the wi-fi signal's pretty naff this side of the building." I inform him. "Perhaps, if you stood closer to the outside window...?"

"**MR FARRELL?**" he shouts impatiently, his eyes narrowing.

"Oh wait, of course! Now I remember, I had a friend of mine attempt to hack and then block the 'untraceable' frequency you and your men have decided to switch to, before I came in. I'm guessing he succeeded."

"What... how could... _**how is this**_**...?**"

|"_Hey Hunt, hows it going? Now, I know what you're thinking... and no, this is most definitely **not** a recording! It's me! The guy who puts the 'Q' in 'I.Q'! Boy, I'm guessing that **ridiculous** grin of yours has **finally** been painfully wiped clean off! KInd of like having a rectal examination performed on you with a cactus! Ouch!_"|

"Q? That's... that's impossible!" he mutters in genuine disbelief.

|"_Not impossible, Hunt. Downright **ingenious**!_"| responds Q. |"_Impossible's a walk in the park for me!_"|

"It's over, 'Davian'" I tell him. "Before it even _began!_"

"How? How were you... able to...?"

|"_**Easy!** Well, actually, slightly tricky. Sure, you left a convincing enough cyber trail with just the right level of hackable code to decipher back when I researched your file back in Turkey, but where you **really** screwed up was in the server room. __The device I got you both to attach installed what I like to call a 'HashMole' into his matrix system._

_I've been using it via ShadowNet to monitor your communications ever since. Mostly, anyway._"|

"By the time I went after him back at the mountains following the rescue, he had everything up on his tablet. I scanned it all in minutes, right before he took out that special pen of his to... okay wait, that sounded a little-"

|"_And not to mention, **just** before you were about to put a **bullet** in me._"|

"Oh, c'mon. We've been through this, Q, I wasn't going to _shoot_ you..!"

|"_Well, kinda looked like it to me, H... standing there, arm outstretched-"|_

"Ok, now you're being ridiculous! Truth is, I _**always**_ had suspicions there was something _**too**_ perfect about-"

"**SHUT UP! BOTH OF YOU!**" screams Davian, frantically waving his gun in my face.

I slowly raise my hands in surrender, my right hand hovering over my earpiece. Poised. Ready. I follow Davian's eye line as he makes one final nervous glance through the glass at his fellow operatives down below. Each of them, slyly looking up at him with baited anticipation in their eyes.

"**NOW, Q!**" I scream.

I pull out my earpiece, just in time to watch Davian, along with the rest of his men, writhe in agony, as an ultra high-pitched frequency soundwave literally melts their brains via their own earpieces, thanks to the smartest guy in _any_ room.

Immediately, Q follows up the attack by uploading a file detailing The Hands entire operation to every electronic device owned by one of our agents in the building. They swiftly respond by apprehending the Hand operatives, who by now have very little left in them by means of resistance.

But the battles not won, not for me anyway, as Hunt delivers a devastating roundhouse kick to the side of my head that almost bursts my eardrum, followed up by a punch to the ribcage and ending with an elbow strike to my shoulder that almost separates my collar bone.

"**Damn you, Bond! Have you any idea what you've done?**" he screams.

"A somewhat... vague... idea." I mumble back, spitting blood on the carpet floor.

"You cant stop them! You've only managed to postpone the inevitable. You're father's death has _already_ been mapped out. Ethan Hunt's already been apprehended. Nikita Mears, thanks to you, has a death squad zeroing in on her location as we speak. Ditto the other two. The Hand wins, Holly, and those who loyally serve them, are the future."

"No. No, Davian, you're not the future... you're history!"

Corny, I know. But I needed a lead-in line before I suddenly leap back onto my feet and spring-board off of a nearby table to deliver the mother of all jump kicks to the side of _**his**_ skull.

Payback's a bitch and now so am I!

The force sends him spinning through the air, and smashing into a nearby set of wall-mounted monitors. Wasting no time, I following up with another kick into his side, rib for rib, before delivering a barrage of jackhammer-like punches into his gut, finishing with a sweet uppercut to that perfect jawline of his.

He throws a last desperate punch which I easily avoid, catching his arm, before hopping my left leg over it and swiftly pulling it upwards with all my might.

He bites his lip, trying valiantly to muffle his scream as I stand there, looking down at him with utter contempt.

That's when I see it... the skin beneath his left eye... it's... **_shifted_** somehow? In fact, the entire left side of his face appears sunken. Like... _what?_

I take a step back and watch him stumble to his feet, taking the loose pieces of skin around his mouth area into his other hand as he gently pulls. As I gaze upon his **_real_** face, I fight my natural human instinct to throw up, as he explains.

"Over 2 years ago, I was... on an ops mission out in Scotland, serving under a man named Raoul Silva. As we closed in on our targets, trapped inside a remote farmhouse, an explosion was triggered... and caused... **this!** A boobytrap, set by our... most cunning prey."

"Raoul Silva? But that would mean-"

"You're father, Holly. He and that old bitch of a boss of his _**were**_ those targets. So you see, destroying you... his legacy... is what drove me for the next two years! Him... Hunt... all of you! I **refused** to let our surgeons use double-technology to restore my face because I wanted to be reminded everyday of what you're **father** had done! What **Hunt** had done! **WHAT YOU ALL HAVE DONE!"**

He's dilarious.

And I'm in trouble. That damn gun, again. It's on the floor by his feet. Damn it!

He clocks it and goes to grab it before pointing it at me. No time to think. Only react.

I ran at him, full force, with everything I have left and the two of us hurtle through the glass wall and down, two floors, towards auditorium below, crashing into an awaiting table as fragments of glass, china and wood splinter everywhere.

Davian's body breaks my fall, and the fall breaks Davian's back. How poetic.

As we both lie there, motionless, the entire world grows dark before my eyes... before disappearing altogether.

To be continued...


	40. File 40: The Catalyst

**HB007/040: ****The Catalyst**

Power suit? Check.

Bandaged arm? Check.

Bruised face and ribs? Check.

MI6 HQ. London.

I'm doing my utmost to shake off recurring notions of deja vu, sitting quietly in the reception area outside of M's office. Moneypenny, as always, is busy at her desk on her laptop, doing... whatever it is Moneypenny does. And I've still got that tight gripping feeling deep in my stomach. Then again, that could just be from my bruised ribs.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like a glass of water?" she asks, sincerely.

Sure, if you can throw in a handful of pain killers.

"No thanks." I politely reply.

She gives me a warm 'knowing' smile. Although what exactly she 'knows' will have to remain a mystery, as the buzzer on her desk finally goes off.

|"_Send her in, please!_"| says a voice via the intercom.

I get up, **barely**, and make my way into M's office. The room itself is just as I last saw it. Tidy, un-lived in, methodically organised, everything my one-bedroom apartment in London isn't. I crash-land into a seat in front of his desk, as he raises an eyebrow.

"Morning M." I greet him.

"Bond. How are you feeling?"

"Like a pile of discarded dog poop! How do I look?"

"Marginally worse."

"Thanks!"

"What do you expect, Holly? Most normal people would have at least pretended to have needed more than two weeks to recover from such a physical ordeal."

"Yes, well, you know me, M. Places to go, bad guys to punch in the face. Speaking of which...?"

"The agents of The Hand you exposed were all apprehended, thanks to the efforts of both you and Q. To think, this entire affair could have gone catastrophically bad, in ways you only read about in history books. Having said that, the repercussions of their actions will be felt for some time to come.

At one point I even attempted to reach out to this 'IMF' via Langley, but was told by some pen pushing CIA suit by the name of Brandt, that he can '_neither confirm nor deny the existence of such an organisation_!'."

"We'll, at least we'll be ready for The Hand next time."

"Next time? My view is 'why wait'? Why constantly be on the **defensive**, waiting for something to happen just so we can react? Why not strike first, kick em so hard in the nuts they'll spend the rest of their lives gargling their own balls?"

Ok, that's gross.

"What do you have in mind?" I ask, slightly intrigued, but still grossed out by that 'ball' line.

"A small team of our own." he tells me. "Given full access to **classified** intel, zero accountability, singular in its purpose, you at the helm! What do you think?"

**Are you kidding me? Sounds frigging awesome!**

"Sounds okay." I tell him, with a casual shrug. "When do we start?"

"We don't, unfortunately. At least, not for now." he tells me.

Leaning back into his chair, he sighs heavily. "A lot of changes are happening, Bond. And to be honest, I struggle to see the good in the majority of them, ."

"Well, at least with Davian **dead** there's one _less_ criminal mastermind to worry about, right?"

Curiously, he doesn't respond. Not even a blink. But before I can probe further...

"Harper sends his sincerest gratitude, by the way. Said if you ever fancy a change of pace, he'd gladly have you on his team!"

"Harper? As in Richard Harper? He's still alive?" I ask, with genuine wonder.

"Yes. Rescued by someone I believe you know as 'Sebastian Tombs'. One of **many** aliases he goes by, it seems. And each using the same initials. Sullivan Titwillow, Stuart Thompson, Sugarman Treacle... he's nothing short of an enigma. Left Harper his calling card before disappearing completely."

He pushes a small white business card towards me. Its completely blank, save an illustration of a stick figure with a halo over its head.

"Harper said he took out a room full of Davian's men in less time than its taking me to say this sentence. SUffice to say, at this juncture we can safely presume him to be an ally. You'll know more when we do."

"Just when I thought things couldn't get any weirder."

"The entire world is becoming an increasingly strange place, Bond." his eyes flicker towards a discarded file on top of his desk. "Take the recent case of the body of a naked tattooed woman dumped in a duffle bag, in the middle of Times Square, and an FBI agent's name inked onto her back!"

"Okay, waiting for a punchline...?"

"She was dumped there alive! Memory completely wiped, possessing unique military and combat skills. FBI thought she might be one of ours. She isnt. But whoever she really is is now their problem, we have more pressing matters of our own to contend with. Namely; Max Denbigh."

M catches my eyes roll almost independently.

"I assume you've heard of him?" he asks.

"Unfortunately, yes. Nothing good." I reply.

"Well, it gets worse. Thanks to the whole double-plot incident, the Prime Minister has given him full autonomy to ensure such a threat could never be actioned in the future. In addition to merging our department with MI5, votes from the world alliances have swung unanimously in favour of allowing Denbigh to initiate his 'Nine Eyes world surveillance project'. What that means for the likes of you field agents is as yet unclear."

"But not looking hopeful." I comment, that 'tight feeling' slowly creeping back to me.

"Lets say, if there's somewhere else you could possibly be over the next month or so, I'd strongly suggest you be there." he advises.

"Well, I guess some... downtime couldn't hurt. Got a friend over in Hawaii, I could pay her, them, a visit. If... she's still there, that is."

"Excellent." he replies, before lightly tapping his finger on his desk.

An awkward follows and I'm left wondering; 'does he know about Project: Blindside?' It was before his time, after all. Does he know whom I'm referring to? Heck, is Nikita even alive?

Thankfully, the intercom buzzer goes off, as Moneypenny informs M of another visitor outside waiting to see him. There's a slight hint of... amusement in her voice.

|"_Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I've got James here to see you._"|

Dad?

"Just wrapping up." he tells her, before leaning back in his chair. "Enjoy your time off, Holly. Lay low. Heal. Your father will contact you if and when this all blows over."

"Right. Right then. I'll... be off." I tell him, as I peel myself off of the chair to leave. Just as I arrive at the door...

"Oh, and Bond?"

I turn, waiting to hear some kind of back-handed remark. A warning against attempting to go on some off-book mission that would potentially jeopardise the already shaky future of our department. But...

"Bloody good job!" he tells me with a satisfied smirk.

Now, for any other girl, the only three words spoken by a man guaranteed to elicit as warm a feeling as this, would involve 'you', 'love' and 'I'. The last, technically a letter. But for me, in this very moment...?

"Thanks, M." I reply with a nod, and exit the room.

Outside, in the reception area, I'm met with the tall broodingly handsome presence of... my father. I can read in his eyes, his initial shock at seeing me in my apparent broken state, as he subtly bites his lip before asking...

"Agent Fleming, right?"

"Mr Bond." I reply with a firm handshake. "You're something of a legend around here. The 'Yoda of the spy world', I think was Q's quote."

He smiles, "Only, a tad younger, I hope. From what I understand, you're shaping up to be quite the field operative yourself?"

"Well... wouldn't think it to look at me." I reply, raising my bandaged arm.

"Occupational hazards. The small print in-between the small print."

"Yeah, well you should really see the other guy. This... is a lot worse than it looks."

"Ah, don't you mean...?"

"Right. Ah, yeah... I... hey, could we maybe grab a Starbucks or...? Got a list of, like, a million questions to ask you. About the job and... stuff."

"I... would. But i've got a flight to catch in an hour. Mexico City. Few things I need to take care of. Maybe when I get back?"

"Sure. Sure. Well, take care da-ah, James. Nice meeting you."

Wow, Holly! What do you do for a living, again?

He smirks, before making his way into M's office, and I make my way to the main lift lobby, deciding to pay one last visit to an old friend at the lower level before I leave. Again, not much has changed. It's still grey, dark, and with that weird scent in the air. I make my way down the corridor and arrive outside his lab, knocking twice on the door.

"Come in!" calls a voice.

I enter as he glances up, peeking over the rim of his spectacles at me. I'm smiling on the inside, but on the outside I'm playing it cool as always. It's good seeing him again. Really good. But its a fleeting moment, as just as quickly he returns his attention back to... whatever it is he's busy doing.

"Holly!" he mutters.

"Surprised to see me?" I ask.

"Surprised you knocked! You look radiant as ever. Is that a new blusher?"

"Yeah, it's called 'shiner'. What you up to, nerd?"

"Top secret. Sorry."

"Well, I could always beat it out of you with this cast?"

He sighs heavily. "If you must know, it's a new project I've been commissioned to create. Makes 'Big Brother' look like his little sister. I call it 'Smart-blood'."

"What does it do, turn dumb people into people like you?"

"I'm a Quartermaster, Holly, not a miracle worker! Its cutting edge nano-technology that will potentially allow us to keep track of our agents movements out in the field. Minimising any risk of the Hand one day making good on their threat. Orders came directly from the boss. Ever get the feeling, after all our effort, we still lost?"

"It's... a growing notion." I tell him with a frown. "Looks like I picked the right time for some 'annual leave'. Heading off to Hawaii."

"She's safe, Holly. They both are. Her and Michael. I immediately got in touch with them as soon as you told me back at the hospital what Hunt... what Davian had said to you. Looks like it was a bluff. They've moved location anyway, just to be sure. I'll forward the new coordinates to you. Speaking of hospital...?"

"Don't you start. They'll be plenty of time to rest when I'm dead. Which... of course, I... hope wont be for some time to come!"

"We all live in hope, Holly. It's what keeps us going." he says.

Yeah, that and a steady supply of pain killers.

"Well, I'm out of here!" I announce. "See you when I get back! Oh, there was one other... thing...! Back at the hotel, Davian mentioned... well... he was talking to me about... you. And that he noticed... how you... may...!"

Damn it. I've rehearsed this a million times in my head. I'm convinced Q would have heard him. But maybe he hadn't.

"Holly, I can honestly say, hand on heart, I have... literally no idea what you're talking about!"

Right. That answers that, then.

"Hey, forget it. Doesn't matter. See you when I get back." I tell him, turning abruptly to rapidly make my way back towards the door.

"Ah, Holly?"

'At last' I think to myself, immediately stopping to turn around, trying valiantly not to smile. Need to play it down, show at least a _little_ restraint. This has been a long time coming, after all.

But...

"Have a safe flight!" is all he simply says, before returning back to concentrate on his work.

"Sure." I smile back.

Sure.

**To be continued... Jan 2016**

A/N : This wraps up 'season one' of Holly's story. Hope you enjoyed the read and continue to enjoy it when it returns Jan/16. This last chapter leads into the 'Spectre' movie, and will pick up after the events in that film.

Have a fantastic Christmas &amp; thanks for all the positive reviews, PMs etc

To the person plagiarising my story on other similar sites, shame on you! 'Tut, tut.'


	41. CLASSIFIED: Mr Hinx

[Season Two]

**CLASSIFIED: Mr Hinx**

'There's no place like home.'

At least, that's how the saying goes.

Although in my case I can think of at least a few. Bomb sites, scrap yards, your average underwear draw... to be honest, it's a pretty extensive list.

Some would even go as far as to draw parallels between the state of one's home and what's happening in their day to day lives. So what does that say about me and mine? Nothing I don't already know, I expect.

The name's Bond. Holly Bond. And I am... tired, jet lagged, and more than a little tipsy from those mini-Martinis they kept offering me back on the plane. It's midnight, and I'm standing in the doorway of my one bedroom studio flat in London, which sits comfortably above the 'Dream Clean' dry cleaners, who, fyi, charge an arm and a leg for their services but the results of which are worth every penny.

I kick the door shut behind me, toss the keys in the empty fish bowl on top of the small drinks cabinet by the door and drop the suitcase on the floor, where it will probably remain for the foreseeable future. Or until I run out of something to wear.

But something's... off. And I don't just mean the hallway lights, the absence of which cloak the entire hallway in virtually pitch-black darkness. The light sensors, they're not picking me up. Why? Power cut? I manually hit the switch. Nothing.

Hoping I havent fallen behind on my rent again, I feel my way along the wall towards the bedroom and push the door. It creaks open and I flick the switch inside. Still nothing. Great.

Further on ahead I can see a faint red and blue hue pulsating from within my oddly designed open planned living room. Odd, due to its long, narrow length which sees a small kitchen sitting at the only end of the room that doesn't have a window.

Blue lights probably coming from the shops neon sign which sits right outside the window.

Red light, I'm guessing's coming from the answer machine at the other end. Which, I'm also guessing, has been picking up calls bounced directly from my mobile, courtesy of its battery that's been about as flat as freshly laid tarmac for the past 8 or 9 hours.

Kind of surprising still, as I very rarely get any phone calls. Having no friends or social life will kinda do that for you, you know? Spending all that time with Nikita, Michael and their lovely family abroad has only served to hammer that point home.

'Daily self-loathing' out of the way, I head into the living room, tripping over the odd discarded item to make my way over towards the window. Shoes off, I hit the 'play' button on the answer machine, casually massaging my foot as I listen.

"_You have four new messages. First message sent; Thursday 3rd of December at 19:32pm_."

|"_Hey, Holly, its... it's me. As in... Q. It's Q. Look, I... just wanted to... you know... earlier today I wanted to tell you... ah... anyway, have a good... trip!_"|

"_Message deleted_."

Ah, the enigma that is 'Q'. Dumbest smart guy on the planet. Although I cant really blame him for my evident lack of ability to say what's in my head when I really want to say it. Unless, of course, I... didn't really want to say it? Because I... don't... really feel what I... think I feel?

I need another drink.

"_Next message, sent today at 10:35pm_."

|"_Ah... this is a message for... ah... Miss Fleming? We just wanted to know wether you arrived home safely... drop us a message when you get a minute. Was great having you over. Bye for now._"|

Ah, speak of the ex-high kicking, gun totting, government super agent. Funny, whilst it's been amazing her adopting me as a 'little sister', I still cant help wondering, in another world, if dad and her would have... well... she could have been my...

"_Next message, sent today at 11:05pm_."

|"_**Damn it Holly, why wont you answer your damn cell phone? Been calling you now for hours! You're in danger and you really don't have much time...!**_"|

Wait, I know that voice... Alexia?

|_**"If you're listening to this, you're obviously still alive, but you need to find somewhere safe, somewhere they can't locate you!**_"|

What-?

|"_**There's an assassin, works for the Spectre branch of The Hand. Very formidable, very dangerous. Had a recent tussle with your father out in Morocco few months back. It was thought that your father had killed him. He didn't. Just pissed him off a little. Now he's coming for you!**_"|

Again... what?

|"_**Call me when you're in the clear, I'll explain everything to you then. You know how to reach me!**_"|

"_End of message_."

My heart-rate's going through the roof. Feels like there's a knot being tied in my throat with barbed wire. Damn this alcohol. Can't think straight. I can feel a chill running down my neck... feels like...! Wait a minute. That's not a chill... it's someone's breath... THEY'RE STANDING BEHIND ME!

Before I can react, two large hands suddenly grip the sides of my skull, lifting me effortlessly up off the floor. I'm kicking like crazy to get free but it's no use. I can feel my skull slowly being crushed as my brains begin to ooze out of my eye sockets. His strength is... inhuman. And the pain...

Finally I manage to use the table in front of me as leverage to flip up and over my attacker's head, buying me a few seconds recovery time. But he spins around just as quickly, delivering a kick to my stomach that sends me halfway across the room, landing in the darkened kitchen area he no doubt had been hiding in all along.

As I land with an ungraceful thump, I look up to try to get a visual on my attacker. He's huge silhouetted frame blocking most of the window behind him, the outside neon light giving him a weird physcadelic aura that only serves to reinforce my feeling of dread. Again, damn-that-alcohol.

I need a gun. And the only one my intoxicated brain can remember right now is strapped to the underneath of the table the answer machine's on. Just need to make it past the 'human partition', there.

"Mr, you _**really**_ don't wanna do this!" I tell him as he etches slowly towards me. "...**BUT I DO!**"

I spring to me feet and and make a sudden dash towards him, hoping to catch him off guard. I don't. Instead he takes a swing at me so hard I feel a huge gush of air as I barely duck beneath it, using my momentum to deliver a right hook into his ribcage with all my might.

Nothing. Maybe he's wearing body armour?

He retaliates with a backfist, which again I manage to duck beneath, opening him up to deliver three blows to the face followed by two to the chest that would at least rattle a normal guy. He smiles. Then grabs me by the shirt collar, before flipping me up and over his head to bring me crashing down on the answer machine table.

A desperate knee to his face brings little more than annoyance, as he raises his huge hulking arm in the air to deliver the finishing blow. At the last second I spin to my right off of the table, just as his hand splits the table into two, exposing the firearm strapped securely beneath it.

I reach for it and cock the hammer back which he hears, as he makes a mad dash towards the doorway. So, he is human after all. I empty the clip after him, but its too late, he's gone.

Exhausted, bruised and still bloody jet-lagged, I lay there on the floor, as the sound of an outside car screeches off into the distance. Welcome home Holly.

Glancing over at the answer machine on the floor beside me, I see there's one last message remaining and hit the play button with the only part of my body that isn't hurting.

"_Next message. Sent today at 11:52pm_"

|"_H, hope you had a banging trip! Lots to catch up on like you wouldn't believe! M wants you in, 6.30 sharp. That's AM not PM, by the way, so be sure to grab yourself an early night. Big day ahead and you'll be meeting the new team of... ah... I wasn't supposed to... say any... ah... see you in the morning!_"|

"_End of Message._"

To be continued...


	42. CLASSIFIED: The Churchill Room

**CLASSIFIED: The Churchill Room.**

"_Hold on a minute, he's gone off where with whom?_"

"Wow, Holly! That's seriously all you heard, during my long rather detailed explanation of how one of the five principal members of The Hand almost brought down our entire-?"

"Just give me a name!" I ask.

"Blofeld. Ernst Stav-"

"The girl, Q!"

"What? Really? Why, what're you gonna do, stalk her social media accounts?"

"**Don't be ridiculous!** ...that's what you're there for. Age?"

"Really, Holly, I fail to see how discussing her _**age**_ factors into-"

"**Q-!**"

"Late 20's, I think! Give or take-Look, H, this is hardly-"

"It's okay! I get it. Keeps him feeling young and alive... after all, I'm his _daughter_ not his bleeding **_mother_**, so what do I care, right?"

"Holly..."

"I mean he is, after all, a _grown man.._.!"

"Holly..."

"A _**47 year old grown man**_, but that's besides the point."

"Are you finished?"

"Yes! Yes, I... think I am. But I can never be too sure. My mind, Q, it's a very... complex environment these days...!"

"_Telling me_." he mumbles, as he leads us out of the security lift and down a long narrow corridor made of stone and steel.

We're at MI6 HQ, sub-basement level 3, and heading towards the fabled 'Churchill Room', a self-contained mini-fortress within a fortress nobody even knew existed. Aside from those that actually did know, of course. And Q's been bringing me up to considerable speed regarding the latest super villain plot to be 'Thwarted' by my old man.

Who, going by what he chose to do _next_, is anything but.

Cue my rather hostile reaction. Which, in all fairness, is probably down to a lack of... well... 'action' happening in my own corner of the spy world. And I'm not talking 6 ft 5, 278 Ib assassins out to snap my pretty little neck in two, either. That part's adequately covered.

No, for as long as I can remember I've been building a great wall around me to rival China's, as a way to protect the heart of that terrified little baby girl who was unceremoniously dumped on an orphanage doorstep all those years ago. Look, I'm not out to play the violin here, I'm just saying, if you find yourself dumped in the middle of an ocean, sinking or swimming are the only 2 options available to you. Me, I chose to do the backstroke.

Then 'pops' enters my life some many years later. What a story that was. And instead of smothering me with apologetic tales of sincere regret at not knowing I even existed, he proceeds to tell me 'Good on you, Holly! That's how I survived!" and "Happiness for us means someone else's life being possibly at risk!"

Right or wrong, I translated this into, 'Our work out in the field will never be done!'. That there will always be a threat to stop. No downtime. No rest. No riding off into the sunset on camelback, sipping Vodka Martinis, looking forward to tomorrow. So how does he explain what he's gone and now done? Of all the hyp-

"Is it me or do you look decidedly _more_ worse for wear than when I last saw you?" asks Q suddenly. "Thought time was supposed to _heal_ all wounds?"

"Gee, thanks nerd, you say the most wonderful things! Was just having a bad makeup day, actually."

No, I haven't gotten round to telling him about my home invasion episode last night. That'd just open an even bigger can of worms before I'd had a chance to prep my fishing hook.

"Yes. Well. I'm... ah... anyway, we're here, now!" he tells me, rather awkwardly, as we stand in front of... a wall. A regular-looking stone wall.

"Is this the part where we say 'Open Sesame'?" I ask, sardonically.

He pushes his spectacles up along the bridge of his nose and raises his other hand to the wall's surface. A quick five-fingered thumbprint scan from hidden sensors on its surface register his identity and presto, two hidden doors automatically open inwards.

"And I thought I'd seen everything." I gasp under my breath.

"Hardly, Bond. But with your new level clearance, you will now." he whispers back before leading us in.

It's a fairly spacious circular room, with three stone pillars standing tall and proud. The walls are garnished with large pastel-grey stone slabs of varying sizes, interwoven with tiny amber lights. Matching stone tiles adorn the entire floor area, polished to mirror-like perfection and entire room is lit in a semi-blue hue but oddly enough there are no such light fixtures. Curious.

The fact I barely knew the room even existed, buried beneath the deepest levels of our facility, coupled with the sight of M seated at a large circular stone table that sits gracefully in the centre, in the company of four other individuals I've never seen before, leads me to assume that whatever this meeting is about is of utmost importance, steeped in the highest levels of MI6 security.

Or that we've simply walked into the wrong room.

"**Bond. You're late.**" grunts M, in his usual Solemn-faced manor.

Not sure what gets my back up more, him calling me out by my 'real' name in front of his 'guests', or the decidedly 'off' tone he's adopted altogether. Leaving me to respond with nothing more than a silent raise of an eyebrow.

"It's okay, Holly." says the mysterious brunette to his right, as Q and I take a seat. "The situation we currently find ourselves at odds with, calls for complete transparency between all persons involved."

Great, another mysterious brunette. Just what my life needed.

Something about her, though, looks... familiar. And I'm not referring to her sunken, defined cheeks that cast a continuous shadow over the lower areas of her jawline. Or those full lips of hers that appear to have been inflated with a bicycle pump. Or the fact that though she appears old, and not in a 'free transportation on the London Underground' kind of way, she could definitely handle herself in a pub fight. Or have her choice of company at the bar.

"I'm sorry, who are you again?" I ask politely.

"**Evelyn** is our international head consultant on this project, Bond'." explains M. "Brought in from our US counterparts due her extensive experience in the matter."

"And what exactly is the matter, M? What is this project? And who are these other... guys?"

"Does she always look this discombobulated?" smirks the young guy to Evelyn's right. Early-mid 20's, real 'silver spoon' type, with a quiff.

"No, only when there's a bad smell in the room." I reply. "Have you showered recently?"

The smirk evaporates into a frown.

"Bond, allow me to introduce **Ryan Hart.** Expert analyst and tactician. Ex-Royal Navy, he's something of a prodigy, worked freelance over in Our Majesty's secret 'Sky-ops' division over at MI5. The youngest ever to do so."

"I've never even heard of a 'Sky-ops' division." I remark.

"Guessing that's why they called it 'secret', Blondie." says the rugged-looking biker kid next to him. All tattoos and attitude, this one.

"**Callum Stone**. Majored in advanced Toxicology at the age of 16 back when the majority of he's peers were preoccupied with struggling to come to terms with puberty. Though, granted, you... wouldn't know it to look at him.

Beside him, **Alex Luther.** A profiler with a real natural talent for weeding out B.S. as I unwittingly discovered during her initial interview. Her considerable lack of field experience aside, she possesses an extraordinarily intuitive mind. Even managed to ace your test results!"

Well, whoop-dee-frickin-doo!

Shouldn't be too mad though, she actually seems quite pleasant. Again, early 20's, mixed ethnic origin, hair as frizzy as freshly made curly fries. A sloucher, from the way she's folded into her chair. Left handed, from the way she's nervously tapping the table lightly with her pe-

"Actually, I'm right handed! Like my old man." she suddenly tells me. Wait, did she just read my-

"You're profiling me. I can tell from the pattern of movement in your eyes. My erratic yet subtle hand movement was simply a decoy action to make a point. Sorry." she shrugs politely, with a smile. "Did you know 80% of all communication is actually conveyed through body language?"

"Really?" I gasp. "Did you know Humans shed about 600,000 particles of skin every hour, which works out to about 1.5 pounds every year, meaning the average person would have lost a staggering 105 pounds of skin by age 70?"

The room grows awkwardly quite, and a small part of me feels... equally awkward. Guessing this is M's _super young spy team _idea fully fleshed out.

"I'm sorry," I tell them, half-apologetically, "look, it's early and my caffeine level's dangerously low, so if we could skip the intro's and get to the heart of why we're all here, then maybe...?"

Suddenly a holographic image bursts to life in front of us above the centre of the table, depicting a dozen or so circular shapes interconnecting with one another... a chemical compound? "VX Gas." explains Evelyn, taking centre stage. "Up until Jan 16th of this year, every lethal variant of its compound nature was known and accounted for by world intelligence. Until that day."

"What happened?" enquires Callum.

"A secret chemical facility located somewhere in Bavaria, southern-east Germany, was raided by a team of mercenaries led by this man."

Suddenly the image morphs into a familiar bearded face of a man. Stoic, mid 40's, serious-looking, possibly Philippine military, but definitely... familiar.

"He's known only as Mr Hinx." explains M. "A hired gun who recently appeared on our radar during our recent encounter with the criminal organisation Spectre, itself believed to be a subsidiary of The Hand, where he was hired to eliminate you're father. Our initial reports had him down as deceased. Our most recent report... anything but."

Damn it! Damn it, Bourne, what have you got yourself _and me_ into, now?

"It's believed a counter-agent was being developed at the facility," continues Evelyn, "by order of German intelligence. But due to unforeseen circumstances, a more volatile strain was inadvertently developed, revealed to be over 10 times as lethal."

"That's... doesn't sound good." comments Alex.

"It isn't." replies Callum.

"Intelligence has us believe Hinx is scouting for a buyer." continues M. "Desperate to earn his way back into The Hand's fold following his failure to fulfil his last contract. On the rare occasions he's been sighted, this particular woman is never far behind."

The hologram morphs for a third time, this time it's a women's head, only not just... any... woman.

"We're not sure of the relationship between them, other than that they are working tightly together. She is an extremely dangerous assassin, credited with a number of political assassinations throughout several foreign territories."

Q glances over at me, then removes his glasses for an impromptu clean before asking; "Any... ah, any... other info... on the woman?"

"Just a name." replies Evelyn. "**Bourne. Alexia Bourne**."

To be continued...


	43. CLASSIFIED: The Eisner Project

**CLASSIFIED: The Eisner Project**

Well, couldn't have written this one better.

Last night I arrive home late to discover I was not alone. Now, wouldn't be so bad if he were tall, dark and handsome. But no, I got tall, dark and _homicidal_.

Having survived our first 'date', it transpires he may have targeted me as some sort of 'revenge assignment' to get back at my dad for kicking his ass aboard a train befote going on to capture his lunatic boss, Blofeld. But now I'm discovering he's currently working alongside MIss Bourne, the same Bourne who alerted me to his presence there in the first place.

Now, much as I'd like to explain all of this to my boss and new found BFF's, something tells me it would only make matters... more complicated? Case in point, I've just informed them all that the wanted man identified as 'Mr Hinx' paid me said visit last night.

"**_And you didn't think to bloody well notify us?"_**

See? And that was just M being _polite_ in front of his guests.

"Naturally, I... hadn't gotten round to _reporting_ it." I say.

"**_Naturally, you're becoming something of a pain in the arse!_**" he barks back, before tapping away at his holo-desk keyboard.

"_**Have you any idea how dangerous this man is?**_" asks Evelyn.

"What do you think this is, lady, a _bad make-up day?_" I ask, pointing to my ruffled face.

"Well gee, yes, that's _kind of _what you told me it was when I _asked_ you!" remarks Q. Not now, nerd.

"Is this how _all_ your 'top' operatives operate?" asks Evelyn, as she turns to M.

"No. Just the ones that rhyme with 'blonde'." he replies, rather wittily. At least I _think_ he was being witty.

"Hey!" I say, "Let's not forget, that family name you love to soil so freely, achieved more headway in the last 6 months than anyone else in this room! I think! Anyway, how about we refocus on why we're all _really_ here? Unless... that's... _why_ we're all here?"

"**The gas!**" says Q, throwing my a lifeline. At last.

"The gas." echoes Callum, with an exiting snap of his fingers. "Okay, _if_ it's still in Hinx's possession, then it's only a matter of time until it's not."

"He'll need a buyer with considerable resources. The Hand have a number of sub-cells within their organization. Any one of them would prove a tantalizing proposition." says Eveyln.

"But how? It's not like you can just hold a private underground auction and have a dozen terrorist cells bid for it?"

"Actually, Alex, it's a _lot_ like that!" I tell them. "M, I'll need 48 hours to a week to follow a potential lead."

And pay an old friend a visit.

"Good. Meanwhile, I'll head to that facility in Germany." suggests Callum. "Nobody creates a toxin _that_ lethal, accidentally. I suspect foul play could be afoot!"

Bizarre. On the outside the guy looks like Keith Richard's forgotten grandson, and yet opens his mouth and its like a 'Mark Twain' novel come to life.

"Good idea, I'll pack a suitcase." says Ryan. "Unless your 'German' is as _on point _as your chemical... whatnot?"

"Marvelous." says Q. "Report to my workshop before you leave, I'll have your mission briefs ready, in addition to a few... _accessories_ you may find handy. Other than that I'll be keeping a watchful eye at this end, networking communications between the four of you."

"Four?" I ask, looking over at M.

"Alex here, will be accompanying you." he informs me. "You'll find her particular set of skills of more than adequate use. This is how this plays out. You have an issue with it, then I'm afraid you'll-"

"Hey! I was just gonna say I could use the company." I tell him. Like heck.

"This time we're taking the fight directly to The Hand." explains Evelyn. "And **Project Eisner **is the tip of that spear."

"**Eisner?**" I say. "Let me guess... **Karl Eisner**. Swiss cutler born in 1860, Zug, Switzerland. Eisner went on to help form the Association of Swiss Cutlers. A group of who would go on to receive fame, success and notoriety, pioneering the invention of the Swiss Army knife. A military tool which, much like this team, is comprised of various-"

"Actually, it was the name of my pet chihuahua. Before it died." smirks Evelyn, much to my embarrassment. "But we could go with your explanation."

Awkward moment aside, the two boys get up and make their way out of the room. Leaving my eyes to flicker over towards Q. Only he doesn't see me as he's too busy looking towards... Alex?

"Going after someone like Hinx only affords us one opportunity to hit the mark." warns Q. "Nail it and we'll have as good an opportunity as ever at uncovering the identity of the remaining Hand leaders. Miss it, and..."

"I'll be in touch." I mumble, as I get up.

"**_We'll_** be in touch." adds Alex, before also getting up.

"Relax, Luther." I tell her. "Need to pop home, hit the shower, grab a few things... got a number I can catch you on? Instagram account or...?"

"Already programmed into your mobile, Bond." Q kindly informs me. "Along with the rest of the team. As is yours in theirs, etc."

"Gee. _Thanks_, Q." Thanks a million.

"As for your things, they are being moved out of your apartment as we speak," M then informs me. "A Site Team's already been assigned to do a full sweep. Hopefully they'll lift a print of some kind, or some other clue as to what he was doing there."

"Erm,... to kill me, maybe?" I ask.

"No disrespect, Miss Bond, but if he wanted to kill you, we wouldn't be having this conversation." says Evelyn.

"Gee, that was the '_non-disrespectful_' version?" I ask.

"You'll be adequately relocated by the time you return, to a hotel of your choosing." M informs me.

"Thanks."

Wait a minute! That means they're going to go through my things and... No! Please, dear God, let them not look in my underwear draw. Hashtag mortified.

"Holly, a quick word before you go?"

"Sure, Q." Not like I've got some place I need to be.

We both get up and head out through the double doors.

"See you in Q's workshop in about two hours!" calls out Alex. I force a wave back to her in response.

Outside, Q and I make our way back down the stoned hallway towards the lift, only this time it doesn't seem that long a walk.

"Look, Holly..."

"Q, what in the world of exploding pens was going in there? M taking kids off the streets to induct them into MI6 field ops on their first run? It's beyond crazy, it's... irresponsible."

"Yeah, about that... look, Bond, you should know... well, during that entire Nine Eyes debacle, M... let's just say, if he had trust issues before, they're practically non-existent now. The 00-X program... that's what he's calling this... well... it's... not entirely the first op these 'kids' have ran... since you've been gone."

"Are you...? Wait, what?"

"Evelyn came onboard, practically handpicking Ryan and Callum, who she's had vague dealings with in the past. Alex has been operating as MI6's eyes on the streets for sometime now. Reporting any 'out of the ordinary' characters doing things... out of the ordinary, which technically to them could I guess be deemed... ordinary?"

"And that's all well and good, Q. But to operate as a team, together? That's an entirely different-"

"Ahh, yes. About that...! As a team, this actually is our... 3rd Op together, in as many weeks. E's proven to be a considerably-"

"E?"

"Ah yes, that's... what they're calling Evelyn. Only fair, really. Seems everyone's having their names abbreviated these days!" he laughs, nervously. I don't join in. He quickly stops.

"Okay, H, I admit the situation's still far from okay, with Alexia now in MI6's sights-"

"She's in trouble, Q!" I whisper, pulling him closer. "And I don't just mean her being number 2 on MI6's current most wanted list. She warned me Hinx was coming for me. Left a message on my answer machine."

"Not very super spy-like of her."

"Yes, well that's an even _longer_ story. Point being, he was there! He heard the message. If she is working with him on some kind of undercover mission, suffice to say that cover is now blown! Ahead of that I need you to retrieve that answer machine when they bring my things in."

"Well, yes, I can see how it would be... somewhat _difficult_ for us to now explain our pre-knowledge of her existence, **seeing as you willfully omitted her name from any and all past field reports since this entire mission began!**"

"Oh sure, blame me why don't you? And keep your voice down! Just get hold of that answer machine."

"Supposing you'll want me to provide a means to contact Mr Redington as well?" he asks.

Yes, you smart-arsed... smart... guy... you know that's the lead I was referring to. I need to locate the date and whereabouts of the next Auction. Providing, of course, the destructive antics my father and I got up to at the last auction, hasn't killed the entire event altogether.

"I'd appreciate that, thanks" I say.

"Sure. Will there be anything else?" he asks, briskly.

"No."

"Good." he tells me, before turning back and silently heading towards the room.

Something isn't right here. Feel like I'm the last one invited to my own birthday party. But then who am I kidding, this is my life we're talking about here. Nothing's _**ever**_ right.

_To be continued..._


	44. CLASSIFIED: The Debt Collector

**CLASSIFIED: The Debt Collector**

13:05 BA flight To Paris

Okay, so it turns out Redington's a little harder to find than I'd anticipated, having now disappeared _completely_ off grid. Not that he was ever 'on' it, to begin with. Q _did_, however, manage to come up with a possible alternative source. A man named; **Hosea Carrera**. Turns out he's an art dealer From Cuba who's set up his business in Paris. And, fact fans, also happened to supply none other than **Dorian Grey **with all those wonderful canvases I saw displayed back at his mansion.

So, why an art dealer?

Well, according to his classified case file, he's known by another name out on the black market; **The Debt Collector**. How it works is if you owe a lot of money to somebody, criminal or otherwise, he'll _guarantee_ a way to make you pay. Now we're not talking physical violence here, no, think skeletons in closets. If there's dirt to be found on you, he'll dig it up and blackmail you into paying _double_ what you owed the _original_ person in the first place. The other half of that payment going directly into _his_ account.

Worse still, if on the off chance you're squeaky clean, he'll _fabricate_ that dirt to such a degree of perfection, your own mother would happily give your arse up. It's rumored 'The Auction' is one of only a select few avenues he's chosen to advertise his services.

"Are you gonna remain silent the _entire_ flight?"

Ah yes, I almost forgot. I have the pleasure of having Miss Know-all-things, **Alex Luther **with me along for the ride. I so hate babysitting.

"Sorry, I normally go over my thoughts **alone**, pre-mission. Helps to keep me... focused." I explain.

"_Iron sharpens Iron._" she replies, cryptically.

"Okay, good! That's... good." I tell her.

"In other words, sometimes _sharing_ our thoughts can help bring us a little... clarity." she explains. "For instance, I'm wondering how successful our **cover mission **could possibly be, when only months ago _your_ face was plastered _all over_ the media, following the 'assassination' of the Director of International Affairs?"

Ah yes, the cover mission. ALex and I'll be posing as rival potential buyers at a private auction being held by Hosea at his Paris-based art gallery in the morning.

"My name, or rather the name I was given as a cover, was personally exonerated _by_ said director, now alive and well thanks to my efforts by the way." I tell her. "He issued a press release explaining the entire ordeal was a fabricated hoax, put together by a group of pubescent cyber bullies, with nothing better to do with their sad lives than make other people's miserable!"

"Still, people remember." she replies.

"People hardly remember what they had for _breakfast_ in the morning! Such is the fickle-minded world we live in today. You could be the biggest movie star on the planet one minute, then a handful of turkeys down the line and nobody's batting an eyelid, as they pass you on the street, en route to your first day at your new job, flipping burgers at your local Steak'n'shake! ...What's so funny?"

"You." she says. "Well, not you as such, more what you say. 'Steak n'Shake'. It's a very... American-themed restaurant chain. You _could_ have just said '_frying chips at your local chippie_'?"

"Yea, well, what can I say, they do good burgers!"

"That's not it. Your speech... at times it's peppered with... Americanisms, cultural or otherwise. A byproduct of the time you spent there as a child, no doubt. Of which there's _not_ an awful lot to read up on, I might add."

"You sound almost... disappointed." I say, biting my lip. Has she been researching me?

"Disappointed? Not at all. I'll save the disappointments for when I see you in action." she smiles.

She's testing me, as part of some kind of cerebral analysts or something. Trying to see where my **mind's** at. I ought to help her by _giving_ her a piece of it.

"So, what's the deal with you and Q?" I ask, attempting to flip the script.

"No deal." she shrugs. "He's just an awesome guy, and I'm a real big fan! Genius, actually. Never met anyone _quite_ like him... and I've met some, believe me."

Yeah, bet you have. Speaking of people, the girl I can see just over Alex's shoulder, five or six rows up ahead in an aisle seat, she's looking back at us. I recognize her from back at the airport. She was way up ahead in the cue and looking back at us even then. Who is she? And is she looking at me or Alex?

"And the way Q's able to breakdown the most complex of-"

"I'm sorry," I interrupt her. "I need to... quickly pop to the loo. Hold that thought, will you?"

"Of you sitting on the toilet?" she asks. Everyone's a comedian.

"No! Of what you were... look, I'll be back soon." I tell her as I get up. Geez, this is gonna be an interesting trip.

I head to the toilet up front. It'll give our mysterious _voyeur_ an opportunity to follow me there. Which, I'll admit, sounds more than a tad weird even as I think it.

Best case scenario; she's a reporter who recognizes my face and sees me as her next easy pay rise, which kinda debunks my theory somewhat. Worst case; she's working for **The Hand**. A spy, perhaps? Assigned to keep tabs? Either way I need to find out.

Great, toilet's occupied. I glance back towards the seats and catch her staring right at me. She immediately breaks her gaze and I get that bad feeling again. Finally the toilet flushes on the inside, tap water runs, and the latch sheepishly slides open, before some business guy in a checkered suit, two sizes too big, creeps out and passes me. Geez, what did you _**do**_ in there, dude?

I glance back over to the isle. It's her, she's getting up from her seat, about to walk down that isle towards me. Okay, what now, H? Can't cause a _scene_ here in front of the other passengers? But then that goes both ways. If she strikes, she'll be looking to do it quietly. Draw minimal attention.

One quick glance around and the rest of the passengers seem to be preoccupied with either sleeping, playing on their tablets or complaining to the cabin crew about their lack of inflight entertainment. It's only an _hour and 20 mins_, people.

I head into the toilet cubicle and wait. The doors closed but the latch still reads 'unoccupied', an open invitation for my would-be assassin. 30 seconds go by and nothing. Hearts pounding, but it's _adrenalin_ not fear. It's been _ages_ since my last tussle. Well, hours really, but point is I could do with blowing off some steam. '_Never met anyone quite like him' _she says. Ha! Should probably get out more often then, luv.

45 seconds, I decide to have a peek. Nobody, just some scrawny geeky-looking guy, wearing thick-rimmed spectacles, a grey striped shirt and a blank vacant expression. Suddenly, he pushes me back inside, steps in and pushes the door closed behind him, leaving the two of us standing there awkwardly in the ultra-confined space. I'll admit, I'm now in shock. He _then_ proceeds to slowly remove his spectacles, smiling at me eerily.

"Whoa!" I say, holding up my hands, "Look mate, I dunno what kind of sick fantasy you're trying to live out here, but you **should** know-"

Suddenly, he pulls the right arm of the glasses right outta the frame, revealing a concealed 4 inch blade, and lunges it towards my head, repeatedly. I bob and weave, barely managing to avoid it by millimeters. Then he goes for my chest, I spin to the side, blocking with my elbow before grabbing at his wrist. But he drops the knife into his other hand and goes again, stabbing at the side of my head. I duck below and the knife hits the wall, then I drive my forearm into his elbow repeatedly until he drops it, then bury my fist into his ribs a couple a times, before following up with a knee to the stomach. Softened up, I slide both my arms around his neck, finishing him off with a rear naked choke.

7 seconds later and it's lights out for him, leaving me to catch my breath and a 170 pound dilemma on my hands.

I quickly check his pockets for ID. Nothing, except a mobile phone. It's Apple, so I use the dweeb's thumb print to access it, revealing... **my face** on the screen, and a nice tidy _sum_ below it?

Of course, he's an **assassin**! Back in Tokyo, Q revealed to me that a **kill order** was put out for me on the black web. Never did find out who by, and not so much as a peep from anybody trying to 'pop my clogs', since. Except **Hinx** of course, but that was different. Or was it?

.Thinking quick, I pull the guy's trousers down and plunk his sleeping ass on the toilet seat, leaving the concealed knife visibly on the sink beside him. Then, having rolled the sleeve of his left arm up, I exit, closing back the door behind me, and find the nearest cabin crew member.

Sure, I should have _killed_ him. But in _this_ instance that'd just put the spotlight on me, jeopardizing our current mission somewhat. Best to _implement_ him instead. Make the smart play.

I tell the cabin crew I found him out cold, sitting in the cubical, door unlocked. And that it appears he was out to hurt himself or possibly others with his concealed knife. She duly notifies the plain-clothed security guy seated elsewhere on the plain and he proceed to make an arrest. Recent atrocities in Paris not withstanding, they're gonna step on his ass, hard. Perfection.

As for the girl, I pass her on the way back to my seat. Only now she has a pair of headphones on, leaning comfortably back into her chair with her eyes closed off to the world. Maybe I imagined the whole thing?

Back at my seat, Alex's got the face of a jilted bride on wedding night.

"Was about to send a search party." she jokes.

No point trying to explain it all to her now. After all, it's just another detail I've omitted from my last report. Only _this_ one... I kind of wish I hadn't.

To be continued...


	45. CLASSIFIED: Paris

**Paris**

Home to 12 million-plus largely creative-minded residents and considered, by most, the very epitome of love and romance. Not that I'll be experiencing either of those during my short stay here.

Nope, for me Paris will serve as a backdrop to yet another, albeit slightly trickier than usual, mission. Trickier due to the presence of one Alex Luther, my co-agent also assigned to this mission.

Something about her makes me... uneasy. I can feel her watching my every movement, second-guessing my every decision. She practically jumped at the chance to tag along, prompting the words 'ulterior' and 'motive' to spring to mind, in addition to words 'pain' and 'arse'. Yep, it's going to be a long day.

We arrive at the airport and, having collected our luggage, proceed to exit the building. That's when I see Alex's attention momentarily diverted towards something... behind me?

"Hey, isn't that the guy?" she asks.

"What guy?"

"The one they arrested back on the plane. What do you think he was up to, anyway?"

"Indecent exposure, fare evasion, drunken misconduct, who the heck cares?" I reply.

"Well, you should, he's staring a hole right through the back of your skull!"

I turn to see my little assassin friend being escorted out by airport security. The fact they haven't surrounded me means he's keept silent about our little altercation. Question is, why?

"Man, seems he really has got the hots for you!" comments Alex, with a smirk.

"Can you blame him?" I reply, only for him to suddenly break out the creepiest of smiles, licking his lips like I was something off of a menu.

I respond with a smile of my own, taking out his mobile phone so he can see it before using it to take an impromptu pic of his gurning mug. But he simply responds by making a 'call me' gesture with his shackled hands, before security resume escorting him out. There goes that bad feeling again.

Alex, meanwhile, watching the entire incident unfold, begins frowning at me with a look of extreme confusion.

"I... like to keep a running database of... criminals I... _ahh_... come across." I try to explain. "You never know, right?"

"Guess not." she replies. "But what I do know is that that phone you're holding is not government issue, and therefor non-field mission compliant."

"Hey, its an old contract. Piss-poor reception, but 120gb of storage data...? Heck, I'm paying for the bloody thing, figured I might as well... _ahh_... look, why don't you grab us a cab to the hotel while I-"

"Hail the damn cab, yourself, blondie! I'm grabbing me a latte. Far as I remember it's a long-ass drive to the hotel." she mumbles, before wandering off.

Far as she remembers? Yep, a _**really**_ long day.

Seizing the moment, I forward the pic directly to Q via 'psycho toilet-boy's' very own phone, along with a short update as to what's happened. Just as I've pressed 'send' I hear...

"Holly... you _**are**_ Holly, right?"

I spin around to see... the girl. As in the girl from the plane? She's standing there, all jet-black hair cropped in a 'Linda Evangelista circa late 80's' cut, athletic built and alluringly clad in black just to emphasise it. Even just standing there she's managing to turn more heads than your average Wimbledon cup final.

"I'm sorry, do I... know you?" I ask, rather briskly.

"Holly... It is me, Niki." she says in a weird quasi-french accent. "Little Nikita... from the orphanage? I thought I had recognised you but I was not sure... I mean, how long has it been?"

Too long, obviously.

"The... orphanage?" I mumble.

Okay, this is awkward because I really _**don't**_ remember her. In fact I hardly remember _**anything**_ about the orphanage outside a handful of memories of several of the 'sisters' that ran the outfit. They say it's a result of the freak explosion that ultimately burnt the entire establishment down to the ground. I was found unconscious on a nearby pavement by the fire department, having been dragged there to safety by an unknown person or _persons_. I was 17 at the time.

How is it we're now meeting here, after all these years? And why is she not even _remotely_ familar?

"Hey. Long... time. How are you?" I ask, cause frankly there's nothing else I can think of.

She hugs me, is how she is, nearly crushing the life outta me in the process. Then, almost on cue, my phone goes off. Ironically, it _**is**_ Q.

"Go ahead, take it!" she says. "I need to get going anyway. Hey, maybe we could... meet up, if you are still around at the weekend? Here is my card."

She hands me a weighty thick black business card. At least I think it is, it has nothing but a name 'Nikita Black and a contact number etched into its surface in gold.

I smile back rather awkwardly and she hugs me for the last time before disappearing back into the airport crowd. Weird.

"Q! What've you got?" I ask, answering the phone.

|"_It's not good, H! Ran a check on that mugshot you sent over. By the way, who's phone did you use to send the mugshot?_"|

"The mugshot's owner, figured you could maybe run the number through your database and... well... come up with... something?"

|"_Yeah, see that's the problem... probably best you leave the 'figuring out' stuff to me in future. You broke, like, half a dozen protocols alone with that little_-"|

"Is this the part where I hang up on you, nerd? Cause I'm still short on hearing anything worthy of you actually call-"

|"_Alright, alright, it's your pretty little neck! Anyway, the guy's a cold-bloodied assassin by the name of William Müller aka Butcher Bill. Ex-KSK, he's specialty being able to remove all physical evidence of his marks via digestion!_"|

"Sorry, Q, must be a bad connection. Almost sounded like you said 'digestion'!" I laugh.

|"_I... did_."| he replies, and the laughing stops.

"Gee. Well, that's... new. Okay, so he served with the german special forces and likes his meat _extremely_ rare... so what?"

|"_Wow! Did you **really** not hear the part about 'human consumption'. I'm looking at his score sheet right now and I can tell you, it ain't short and it ain't pretty. Some of these images... the bloke makes **Hannibal Lector **look like a vegetarian!_"|

"What do you want me to say, Q? Im scared? Sorry to disappoint you...!"

|"_I want you to take this seriously. The bounty on your head, Holly, is evidently still very much active, which means you are still very much in **danger**! We need to bring this to M immediately and you need to bring yourself-!_"|

"Look... I'll... Ill bring it to M, but in person. M'll have a thousand questions to ask, and I don't want that unbiased imagination of his filling in those blanks. But _when I get back_, I promise."

|"_Holly... okay, fine! But the very second you set foot back in MI6_."|

"And Müller, what happens to him?"

|"_Paris official's responsibility for now, according to satellite feeds. But I'll keep digging. There may well be a connection between_-"|

I cut him off. Not because he was rambling although the thought had crossed my mind, but because I catch sight of Alex making her way back towards me. And with... 2 lattes?

"You would _**not**_ believe the length of the queue I had to endure! The taste better be worth it! I... got you a chocolate. Hope you like cream?"

"Actually, I don't." I say.

"Oops!" she says, as she drops the entire cup in a nearby waste bin. "Guessing the cab calling was a non-event? Unless you're planning on walking?"

Yep. A very long day.

The journey to the hotel is blissfully silent. But being Paris there's always something visual to be distracted by along the way. But silence never lasts forever.

"So, who was that?" asks Alex, suddenly.

"What? Who?" I ask, panic-stricken at having to explain my mysterious french visitor from the past.

"On the phone, back at the airport." Oh, the phone call...

"Nunya." I tell her.

"Nunya who?" she asks.

"Nunya business."

"Thats funny, _if a little juvenile_. Now tell me, why do I get the strong overwhelming feeling your keeping me in the dark about something?"

"Dunno." I reply. "Could be anything from low self esteem issues to having suffered overwhelming feelings of isolation when you were a child!"

"You really wanna play this game?"

"Honey, I _**invented**_ this game." I say.

"Alright. Okay."

And just like that, the silence resumes once more.

"So... you girls in town for business or pleasure?" asks the driver.

Eventually we arrive at the hotel. Not gonna lie, its beautiful. Stunningly luxurious, even. Perfection.

We enter through the front revolving doors, greeted by a portly chap with a thick moustache and even thicker accent then make our way through the lobby towards the check-in desk. That's when Alex pulls me aside.

"Look, Blondie. I think we got off on the wrong foot." she tells me. "Truth is, if we don't learn to work together, the mission's a bust! What say we 'truce' it?"

Initially, I'm taken aback by the sudden 'white flag waving'. But she's right. Its 2 straight days in Paris and we have to share a room throughout. Let's just get it over with.

"Truce." I reply, holding out my hand.

Then she hugs me. Like, tight. Sure, she's taking things a tad too far, but I admire the whole 'new leaf' approach. Then my phone goes off.

"Its Q." I tell her, glancing at the screen. "Probably checking we... arrived ok. Why don't you go on up with the concierge and the luggage. Ill catch up."

"Sure." she agrees with a smile, "Got some specs I need to go over for tomorrow, anyways."

"Just try and resist dipping into the minibar, alright? We're on a tight budget!" I joke.

Actually, it wasn't a joke.

As they enter the lift and the doors close I take Q off hold.

|"_**Holly?**_"|

"Q, wassup?"

|"_**I need you to ditch the phone!**_"|

"You need _**what**_?"

|"_**Müller's phone! Ditch the bloody thing or destroy it! No, destroy the bloody thing then ditch it! Whichever, look fact is it's concealing a Level 6 Trojan tunnel-worm**_"|

"Did you just make that up?"

|"_**Holly, Im serious. Whoever's pulling the strings behind ole butcher boy is possibly using the device to track your very whereabouts as we speak.**_"|

"Bull! That's... I took it off of the guy myself when he was... No. No...!"

|"_I picked up a ghost signal trying to drip feed data from our primary network systems via the telephone line. It's... well, ingenious. Heck, I'd applaud it if I weren't so bloody terrified!_"|

"Alright, alright, I... I hear you already. Look, I'll...!"

The phone? Its not in my jacket pocket? But... where...? Alex! No way. She must have lifted it from my jacket when... when she hugged me.

"Okay, I'll get rid of the phone!

|"_That's... kinda the problem. Latest satellite feeds reveal the armoured convoy that was transporting him from the airport was ambushed shortly after. Müller'S free!"|_

To be continued...


	46. CLASSIFIED: Hotel Château Noir

**Classified: Hotel Château Noir**

My hearts racing by a thousand beats per minute, as I sprint towards the main lobby lifts, only to arrive seconds after the first lift door closes. Crap.

The second lift awaits, but its already jam packed with so many hotel guests, my chances of getting to the 13th floor any time soon are almost as slim as Alex's if I don't get to her in time. Double crap.

The stairs.

I race through the fire exit doors and make my way up the old fashioned way. Need to remain calm, stabilise my breathing, pace myself. it's me he wants, me he'll be waiting for me and me he's gonna get!

13th floor. Finally.

13th floor. Finally.

Legs are like freshly set jelly, 13 flights of vertical stairs're starting to take their toll on me. Breathing's erratic. Need to focus... almost there.

Weapons. I don't have any! Damn. Except a carbon fibre pistol with matching bullets, secretly integrated into our hand luggage, curtesy of Q's genius. Only, the hand luggage's inside the hotel room and I'm not! Improvise.

I grab a knife from a discarded breakfast trolley outside a neighbouring room and arrive outside our hotel door.

This guy's dangerous, military trained. If anything happens to Alex it'll be on my head. And I can't have that.

I put my ear to the door. Silence. Nothing. Am I too late?

The door's locked, naturally. But thankfully Q's equipped our phones with, among other handy gadgets, a trimetric security reader. Simply hold it over the lock, keep my thumb pressed on the 'home' button until... 'presto', light turns green.

The lock whirs open and I slowly push the door. Hearts pounding again, like its about to climb out of my throat. Need to be alert... he could be anywhere and attack at any given moment and all I have to go by is the layout of the room I glimpsed from an online brochure.

I decide to go in hard, rolling across the floor. I'll play the difficult target, keep moving, gather my bearings, scan the room as I roll, locate each and every optimal cover point of attack. Window ahead is open, curtain's blowing in the wind. Bill's access point into the room, I guess, meaning he's here.

Ahead of me. A body lying in broken glass, to my immediate left, someone sitting on the sofa. I'll have only one shot to attack. One shot to... what the...?

"Alex?"

She's sitting there, relaxed into the chair, slurping on a can of Pepsi from the mini-bar. On the floor before us, Butcher Bill. Only he looks more like '_**Butchered**_ Bill' from the positioning of his acutely angled left arm and right leg. Both evidently broken. Slight raising of his chest tells me he's still alive. Just. She's good.

"Bond." she says, dabbing the corners of her mouth.

"What... happened here?" I ask.

"You tell me, Blondie."

"I just got here." I tell her, slowly rising to my feet.

"Right. Of course. You know, it was weird enough you snapping pictures of ole freak-boy back at the airport, but to then find your picture on his phone...? Well, assuming of course this is his phone?"

She holds up said object in her hands. This one's gonna be tricky.

"It is." I concede.

"Right. So either you and he have got some kinda weird 'thing' going, or... or...! Okay, that was... actually your cue to fill in the blanks?"

I pause for a moment's thought. But faced with the skimpiest of options, I decide to divulge all. Well, the abridged version of 'all' anyway.

"Alright." I say. "Back... during the late stages of our last mission, Q happened across a contract issued on the black web for my assassination."

"Understandable. Who issued it?" she asks.

"That's what we've been trying to ascertain. Naturally, we've been a little... sidetracked, what with current events taking centre stage and all. But to be honest, in the back of my mind I'd already cast the whole affair off as nothing more than another mind game on Hunt's part."

"Hunt? Edison Hunt? The criminal mastermind manipulator who almost tricked half the spy world into allowing him and The Hand full access into the highest echelons of the world's governments, that Hunt?"

"A somewhat... exaggerated view of him..." I reply.

"So, this limp fool's tailed you all the way out here just to cash a cheque? Got to be easier ways to make a living? Guessing they'll be more of his kind along the way?"

"Guessing you'll be right." I tell her. "By the way, did you... call this in?

"You mean to M? No." she replies. "Needed to be clear on exactly what 'this' was. To be honest, I'm still not entirely sure."

"'This' is just another day in the office! For me, anyway. You cant roll with that, should have applied for a desk job!" I tell her, candidly.

"'Roll with that', thats funny!" she says. "Thing is, as long as I'm with you, that target's all but tattooed onto my back too! Which leaves me with a simple choice. And I do like a good choice, Bond. So, do I call it in or...?"

"Or what?" I ask.

"_**Shoot your blonde ass and collect the damn reward myself!**_" she grins, slapping her thigh.

"Bravo! Just when I think you couldn't be more of an awkward cow, you go and surprise me!"

She responds by feigning to scratch the corner of her eye with her middle finger.

"Two days." I tell her. "We finish the mission first, then I take it to M. Two days."

"Hey, it's your call. I'm just your 'plus one' on this crazy stroll through wonderland." she tells me with a shrug.

"Good. Remember that!"

"Sure thing." she smiles, before tilting her head to one side. "You know, I knew a guy like you once? Driven, intuitive, instinctive but always with the support of logical reasoning. His specialty, among many, being the ability to keep those closest to him the furthest away. He thrived in isolation, you see. And this methodical approach to crime-solving made him revered by the majority of his peers. Although hated, somewhat, by the rest."

"Sounds like my old man." I tell her.

"Thats funny, cause he was actually mine. And I'm pretty sure if he had the opportunity to make half the decisions he made along the way differently, he would."

"Your point?" I ask, with a weary sigh.

"No point, Bond. Just letting you know you're not the only closet sociopath masquerading as a humanitarian. Anyway, what do we do about 'sleeping beauty' down there?"

She tips the empty can in the direction of the floor, drawing our attention back towards Bill.

"Well, he was so eager to make it over here, least we could do is let him stay a couple of nights." I tell her. "As our prisoner, of course."

"Could have some valuable intel pertaining tomorrows mark?" she suggests.

"That and a whole lot more, Im hoping." I reply.

"Good. And then after, we kill him." she suggests.

"And then after, we decide." I tell her.

"Whatever. I'm gonna look, see if i can find something to bind him with-to. Big day tomorrow and theres a lot of schematics to cover."

She gets up to leave, crushing the can in her hand before tossing it onto Bill's corpse-like body.

"You do that." I tell her. "Oh, and Alex?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time you steal my stuff, I'll break one of your arms. I'll let you 'choose' which."

To be continued...


	47. CLASSIFIED: La Toile Blanche

**La Toile Blanche **

'_It's so fine and yet so terrible to stand in front of a blank canvas_.'

The quote comes from Paul Cezanne, a 19th century post-impressionist painter, famed for bridging the creative gap between two visually distinctive periods in art. But even he would have at least slapped a little paint on the surface and given a fancy name to what I find myself staring at.

I'm standing in the middle of Paris's swanky 'La Toile Blanche' art gallery, owned by renowned art lover, Mr Hosea Careera. Naturally, the entire operation's a front for one of the most revered criminals operating in Europe today.

Behind me, 115 or so guests continue to mingle away, pointing at the various works on display and making light conversation around the merits of 'creative expression'. Among them I can practically feel Alex's hawk-like eyes piercing the back of my head. She doesn't trust me. More so now than ever before, what with our resident German assassin still strapped to the radiator in our hotel room. She resents me too, mainly for coercing her into keeping the entire affair secret from-

|"**_Holly!_**"|

"**Ow! Damn it, Q! What have I told you about those blasted noise levels?**"

|"_Seriously? You're mad at me? You were supposed to check in every half hour! It's been... 34 minutes and 12 seconds, already!_"|

"Gee, sorry dad! I was... caught up... thinking about... stuff." I tell him.

|"_Oh, is that what that facial expression was? And there was I thinking you were **constipated**!_"|

Luther.

"Now, now, Alex! Grown ups are talking!" I tell her.

|"_Come on guys!_"| pleads Q.

It was bad enough having _one_ quasi-witted voice bouncing around inside my head, besides my own. Having two is proving anything but a party.

|"_Okay, remember 'Hosea Carrera's' the target today, not each other. One of you needs to saddle up to him, nice and close, in order for your phones to get a clean lock onto his. Then it's a quick 60 seconds and 'hey presto'..._"|

"Instant wifi!" I exclaim.

|"_Holly.._."|

|"_Be a professional, Blondie._"|

"Be seen and not heard, Alex."

|"_Enough, both of you! Man! Need I remind you we're on a clock to find the location and date of the next Auction event? Cloning this bloke's phone is our only bleeding way of possibly obtaining that information!"|_

_"_Relax Q, I'm sure there's an alternative source out there somewhere!"

_|"There was, Holly. You shot him back in Moscow! Now, time's ticking, ladies. Do either of you have eyes on the mark?_"|

"Nope!"

|"_Nothing yet! What kind of host shows up late to his own event?_"|

"The kind that likes to make an entrance, I guess?"

"**You too, huh?**" says a sudden voice behind me. Not sure why it startles me. I mean it's not like I'm standing in the middle of a public exhibition with a hundred or so other people. Oh wait, I am.

I spin around to see a young yet surprisingly cute looking guy addressing me. Or make that 'undressing me', from that look in his eyes I've seen way too many times before. Maybe it's the wine he's gulping down like it was purified H2O imported from Mount Tamborine.

"Hi!" I say.

"Hello!" he says.

"Hello." I say.

"Hi." he says.

|"_Wow!_"| exclaims Alex |"_Your conversational skills are clearly on point, Holly! No wonder your still single!_"|

"**No wonder what?**" I shout.

"I'm sorry?" asks the guy, with a perturbed look on his face. Heck, Holly, think!

"**No... wonder what**... _mood_... you find yourself in, you can always count on 'art' to... help lift your spirits!" I tell him.

|"_Good save, blondie!_"|

"Never a truer word said!" he replies.

"Yeah. Err... what did you mean by 'you too'?" I ask.

"Saw you talking to yourself a moment ago. I... regularly have moments where I can only be intellectually stimulated by having lenthy conversations with myself." he chuckles.

Deja vu's a b-itch.

"The name's Edward. Edward Jarvis."

"Hi, Catherine Tate. Pleasure to meet you." I say.

"'Tate' as in 'modern'?" he asks, with a knowing smile. "Surely not a coincidence?"

"Ah, well... what can I say, it's in the blood, I guess! And you, what's your excuse?"

"Slightly less obvious." he gushes. "Take this picture behind us, the one you appear to be so enamoured by..."

"'Enamoured'? I... wouldn't go that far. More 'perturbed' to be honest. At how something as plain and ordinary as a blank sheet of canvas could ever warrant being displayed amongst such fine interpretations of creative thought and emotion?"

|"_Touché. Although a little **heavy** on the 'Art diva schtick'!_"|

"As... I was saying," he continues, "take this art piece I '**submitted**' to him some months back. I created it with the sole purpose of... evoking feelings of weightlessness, isolation... !"

|"_Uh-oh. Busted_."|

"Wow! I... had _no_ idea you...! Yes... now you mention it, I... do get a... faint sense of... err... stuff."

An awkward silence ensues, thankfully broken by his sudden burst of boyish laughter. I follow suit, though more out an overwhelming sense of embarrassment. Time for a topic change.

"So, what's up with the host?" I ask. "Four hours into his own event and he still doesn't show? Here's hoping he doesn't turn out to be another rich, anti-social, recluse, addressing us via a live video feed! Maybe even pre-recorded?"

I cap off my witty remark with a schoolgirl giggle, just for effect.

"What, you mean my father?" he suddenly says. The giggles stop.

|"_Wow, blondie! If your foot could reach any further into your mouth, you'd be the worlds greatest contortionist, you know that?_"|

"Your **father**? Gee!" I say, through gritted teeth. "Who would have know? I mean, different surnames and all... I really **should** check my '_sources_' before opening my big, fat, dumb, mouth!"

|"_Hey, don't blame me, Holly._"| squeals Q. |"_There's no intel on Carrera ever having a son or daughter or... anything else for that matter. Well... not legitimately, anyway!_"|

"Don't sweat it! He... doesn't like to talk about me much, as in 'at all'" he explains. "Says its not conducive to the professional image he's trying to project! Like he's 'afraid' of people finding out about me or something! Or ashamed."

|"_Of course, why wouldn't he be? Extensive list of enemies he must have amassed over his 'career'... If any of em got wind of a potential exploitive weakness...?_"|

|"_Genius is right, Blondie! But if the dude's disclosing his true identity to you in the first 5 minutes... homeboy's ripe for some serious exploiting, himself. Do your thang, gal!_"|

"Maybe he's... just trying to connect with you first." I say. "Before officially introducing you to the world, I mean. He did give you a prime spot in his much revered gallery, right?"

"Right. Yeah, I guess...!" he agrees, reluctantly.

"So... ah... is he... around? Your father, I mean? I'm _**dying**_ to meet him!" I gush.

|"_Careful what you wish for, there._"|

"Yea. He's... taking care of business. He'll be down shortly."

That's when I see her. The girl from the airport with cropped black hair, standing in the centre of the crowd like some weird spectral ghost. What the heck is she doing here? Is she... following me? Just as her eyes flicker towards mine, Jarvis taps my shoulder, distracting me for a second, and when I turn back she's gone.

"Hey, err... be a dear and get me another glass, will you?" I ask. "And make sure it's a... freshly opened bottle, please?"

The look on his face leads me to think he thinks he's getting lucky tonight. Men.

|"_Einstein, could you do a remote localised sweep on the floors above us? __Something tells me that 'business' of his doesn't involve Christmas card deals with the local stationery outlet!"_|

|"_Way ahead of you, Alex. Reading several heat signatures two flights above your position, some kinda large open space... there's a window nearby... tapping into a localised CCTV feed now, hopefully get a visual from the outside._"|

"Is it him?"

|"_Confirmed. It's Hosea Carrera. Looks like he's having a dispute of some kind... possibly with a... potential client?._"|

|"_Can you get audio?_"|

|"_Hey, I'm a genius not a magician! Cut me some slak, will ya?_"|

|"_Sorry, kinda figured it was the same thing?_"|

"Any ID's on the company he's keeping?"

|"_A couple of your usual heavies on standby near a door... some dude in the middle sporting **#worstsuitever**, looks nervous too... then to our right we have... err... we... nope, that's pretty much it! Look, why don't we... go radio silent till he finally... err... everybody mingle, okay? Q, out!_"|

Well, this is turning out to be a fun night out. If Hosea's a no-show the missions practically DOA and we're back to square one having lost two days of our-

|"**_Holly_**."|

"Yes?"

|"_**It's Alexia**._"|

"As in, I'm... _talking_ to Alexia?"

|"**_No, dummy, your talking to Q... who happens to be looking at Alexia!_**"|

"Wait, Alexia is there with you **_now?_**"

|"_For the love of... **No! Alexia is there with you. Now!**"_|

"Sorry, I... don't quite follow."

|"_Upstairs from your location, bumping fists with Hosea and his badguy buddies... It's her! I'm looking right at her! She's there!_"|

"Oh... o**h!** Oh, this is _very_ bad."

|"_Somehow 'very bad' doesn't quite do the scenario justice! Where's Alex?_"|

"Currently being entertained by some slimy-looking dude, old enough to be her father's senior Bridge partner. Wait, is Hinx up there with em?"

|"_Let's see... large, ominous, skyscraper-looking dude, physically putting the rest of the world's male population in the shade? Yep, he's there!_"|

Doesn't make sense. Hinx knows Alexia warned me about the hit. Whatever cover she was under at the time was clearly blown out into the open. But if he knows, why hasn't he exposed her? He's playing the long game. Must be. Question is, which-

"Hey sorry, got caught up with this potential-_Hey, you alright? _Look like you seen a ghost or something?"

Yeah. Or soon to be.

To be continued...


End file.
